by Nicole Maggi
“Jeez, Mellie,” Delia said. “I wasn’t going to read it. I just wanted to see how many pages you’d done.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“What, have you got some deep dark secret in there?” Delia laughed. “It’s not like I don’t know all of your secrets anyway.”
I forced a smile. My heart was pounding. The notebook felt red hot in my bag at my side. I need to keep it safe. But nowhere is safe.
“I haven’t written that much,” I said.
“I write every night,” Susanna offered. She’d been silent through this whole strange exchange. “Just like a half a page or so.”
“It’s a stupid assignment,” Delia said with a sniff. “I don’t see what we’re supposed to get out of it.”
“I kind of like it,” Susanna said. “It’s not any different than writing down your prayers.”
Delia’s eyes narrowed. I could tell that she wanted us all to agree with her, that writing in a journal was some dumb project from a hippy teacher. But I wasn’t going to agree with her. I wasn’t going to betray what I’d written in my journal like that, not when this notebook is the only friend I have right now.
“Whatever,” Delia said. She turned back to me. “Can I borrow your notes on Hamlet? I have to retake that test.”
“Sure.” I dug into my bag. I could feel Delia’s eyes on me, on the journal, like she had X-ray vision and could see through its cover to everything inside it. Everything I didn’t want her to know.
“Why do you have to retake the test?” Susanna asked.
I handed Delia my English binder and she rolled her eyes. “I didn’t do so great on it.” Well, you and I both know she bombed the test. I saw the big red D on her paper when you handed them back. But no way was Delia going to admit that out loud. “I was busy all weekend and couldn’t study. Ms. Tilson said I could retake it.”
“Busy with what?” Susanna asked.
“Wedding stuff.” She sat up straighter, her gloaty look that had dimmed with the mention of Hamlet back on her face. “We tasted cakes and picked out place settings and floral arrangements. You should’ve been there, Mellie.”
“Well, I was at home studying, which is why I got an A on my test.”
“Mel-lie,” Delia whined. “I really missed you. I thought we were going to do all this together.”
“Do what together?” My heart thudded in my chest, like it did now whenever the wedding came up. Once upon a time I would’ve been oohing and aahing over cakes and flowers with her. Once upon a time I would’ve failed my English test too because I was busy helping Hannah with wedding planning all weekend. But now…
“I thought we were going to be helping Hannah plan the wedding together. It was so fun tasting cakes and the baker was this hilarious guy who told the most outrageous jokes—”
“Like what?” Susanna asked.
“I don’t remember them now,” Delia said, glaring at Susanna. “You had to be there.” She turned back to me. “And I really wish you had been.” Delia reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “I thought we would have so much fun together, and you’re missing all of it.”
I looked down at our clasped hands. “I’m sorry,” I said. I wanted to be sorry, but I wasn’t. The thought of tasting cakes and smelling flowers and pretending to be happy… I shuddered, then pretended to cough so they wouldn’t notice. “I was worried about getting all my studying and homework done.”
“Well, I think Hannah could use some support. She seemed really on edge. She disagreed with Brandon about everything. It was pretty annoying.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound like Hannah,” Susanna said.
It didn’t. Sweet, perfect Hannah, who was going to follow in my mother’s footsteps and be a sweet, perfect wife, who doesn’t argue with her future husband. “Disagreed about what?”
“Oh, you know, frosting, flowers… He wanted buttercream frosting, she wanted fondant. He wanted lilies, she wanted hydrangeas.”
“Well, Hannah loves hydrangeas.” But she hates fondant. Why would she dig in her heels about that? I didn’t say that out loud, though. “I’m sorry I missed it,” I said again. “I’ll go next time.”
“Good.” She squeezed my fingers. “We’re almost sisters! It’s so exciting!”
“Yeah,” I agreed, forcing a smile that felt like a knife to my gut.
I want to be happy and giddy and excited like her. I want to be over the moon that my best friend is going to be my sister by law. But how can I call Delia my best friend when I can’t tell her what’s happening to me? When I’m so afraid she’ll judge me? What kind of friend is she that I know deep down she would not support me? Even the good memories are twisted now. I wish I could go back to my old life, but it seems so long ago, like looking back through a long tunnel at a place that is slowly fading.
So now the only place that feels like sanctuary during the day is the library, because no one is supposed to talk in there, and if Mrs. Edison catches you looking at anyone’s work, she’ll lay into you about “keeping your eyes on your own paper.”
No one bothers me in the library, no one asks why I’m writing a letter to Ms. Tilson or why I’m doing my assignment at all. The chairs here are really comfortable too, soft and slightly oversized so you can turn sideways and drape your legs over the arm and still have a nice support for your back. Which is how I’m sitting right now. There are about ten other kids, working diligently at the tables or the computers, and probably a couple more in that back corner where everyone likes to make out. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Edison knows about that—how could she not?—but she leaves it alone. I think noise is more offensive to her than kissing.
I keep going back to something Delia said, though, about Hannah being so disagreeable. That doesn’t sound like Hannah to someone who knows her like I do. Hannah is sweet and kind and accommodating and so good at putting people at ease. But she does have a stubborn streak—a streak her fiancé probably hasn’t seen.
Once when I was about nine and Hannah was thirteen, our whole family went camping at this huge cabin in Rocky Mountain National Park. It was a good thing we were in a cabin and not tents, because it rained the whole three days we were there. By evening on the second day we were all totally bored and full of cabin fever. Dad remembered passing a movie theater several miles outside of the park, so we piled into the car. There were two screens. One was showing a newly released horror movie, one of those terrifying haunted-house movies where even the preview makes you jump out of your skin. The other screen was showing an old Disney movie, The Little Mermaid.
Of course we were going to see The Little Mermaid. Mom and Dad have never allowed us to see horror movies. Mainly because a lot of them are rated R and we’re not allowed to see R-rated movies. But this particular horror movie was rated PG-13. And Hannah turned to Mom and Dad and said, “I want to see it.”
Dad shook his head. “No.”
“Why not? I’m thirteen. They’re playing at the exact same time. You guys see The Little Mermaid, and I’ll meet you outside after.”
Mom reiterated Dad’s answer. “No.”
And then, out of nowhere, it became a screaming match. I’m not a baby anymore. You can’t protect me forever. If the Motion Picture Association of America says I’m old enough to see it, then I’m old enough to see it. You guys are so unfair. You never let me do anything.
And on and on it went.
Finally, it got to the point where we were going to miss both the movies. Bethany started to cry. Dad bought six tickets (Joanie wasn’t born yet) to The Little Mermaid, and we left Hannah fuming outside on a bench for the entire length of the movie.
The thing is, Hannah LOVES The Little Mermaid. It’s her favorite Disney film. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve caught her singing like Ariel in the shower. She would’ve happily sat through it for the umpteenth time.
The only reason she didn’t want to see The Little Mermaid was because my parents told her she didn’t have a choice.
The mystery to me is, why would she feel that way about her wedding?
I wish I could be there for my sister. I wish I could go to cake tastings and pick out floral arrangements and be happy for her. I wish. I wish. I wish.
I want to tell her why I can’t, but it will ruin everything for her. I’m not sure that truth is worth it. Even if you destroy one thing to build something better, there is still all that destruction.
I can’t put her through that.
At the end of the day, even when she bugs the crap out of me, she’s still my sister and I love her. I don’t want her to feel pain. Not even my worst enemy deserves that, least of all my sister.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 15
Dear Ms. Tilson—
It weighs on me. This thing I can’t tell you. It creeps into my daily life when I’m not suspecting it. Like today at lunch. It was totally normal, just me and Cara and Rowan, having a regular conversation, so regular that I don’t even remember what we were talking about. But then:
“Oh my God, he’s such a fucking hypocrite,” Cara said. Rowan and I turned to her. At some point, she’d checked out of our conversation and was scrolling on her phone. I know, I know, phones are strictly forbidden in school, so don’t tell on her, okay? She held the phone out for me to see the headline in the Washington Post: “President Paid for My Abortion.”
It read like a trashy tabloid, but it was not. It was the same newspaper that printed the Pentagon Papers. And there was that headline in black and white; how the staffer who accused the president of coercing her into sex paid for her to have an abortion. To most people, it’s probably one more outrageous act in the long string of our president’s outrageous acts, but to me it went deeper. That headline was a punch in the gut.
“Can you believe him?” Cara said.
“At this point, I can believe anything,” Rowan said.
“I mean, because of him, abortion is illegal in twenty-five states—”
“And because of him, more women are dying,” I muttered.
“—and meanwhile he’s paying for abortions for the girl he raped.”
“Well, of course,” Rowan said. “Those guys are all against abortions until they actually need one.”
Cara’s face got very pinched. “They don’t need one. And who’s to say it was that woman’s choice? Who’s to say he didn’t force her to have an abortion? Maybe she wanted to keep the baby, but he wouldn’t let her.”
“Who would want to keep a baby after they had been raped?” Rowan said.
Cara breathed out hard, like a bull pawing the ground before the charge. “I wouldn’t, but the point is, it’s her decision. Not his. Not anyone’s. HERS.”
“Yes, I agree—”
“In fact, men shouldn’t even be allowed to have an opinion about it.” Cara jabbed her finger at Rowan. “No uterus? No opinion.”
“What? I can’t even say what I think?”
“Nope. Not about this.”
“Hang on, that’s not fair,” Rowan said. “If I was in a relationship with a girl who got pregnant, I’d want her to tell me.”
“It’s not your choice!” Cara yelled. Lucky the cafeteria was so loud no one noticed. “The minute she tells you, you’ll make it all about you—”
“I would not!”
“—because that’s what guys do. It’s not your fault; it’s in your DNA. So suddenly she has to take your feelings into account, and she shouldn’t have to. She should be able to make that choice without anyone else putting their judgment all over it.”
“Wow, Cara.” Rowan sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “You have a reeeeaaaalllly low opinion of men, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. I’m just sick of living in a world that’s run by them.” She glared at him for a moment, then flicked her gaze to me. I was silent, letting their argument wash over me like an angry wave I didn’t want to ride. There is so much I wanted to say… I wanted to scream and yell and cry, but I forced it all down. It’s like when I’m at the clinic, how I have to remember Don’t engage, because if I do, I won’t be able to stop, and that could be dangerous.
Cara nudged me. “Lise, back me up on this.”
I took a deep breath. I thought carefully about what I should say, and then I said only that and nothing more. “I’m sick of it too. Decisions about a woman’s body are the woman’s choice. No one else’s.” I rested my head against Rowan’s shoulder. “Sorry, dude.”
He twisted in his chair so that I had to sit up again. “You’re saying that if you got pregnant, you wouldn’t even tell me?”
Cara slapped the table. “Wait a second. Have you guys finally done it?”
“No,” we both answered and then faced each other again.
I searched Rowan’s face for a long moment. What did he want me to say? “I would tell you,” I said at last, “but only after I had decided what I wanted to. And I wouldn’t be asking for your permission or advice, I’d tell you I was doing it and that was that.”
Rowan bit his lip. “Okay,” he said. “That’s fair.”
The answer I gave him? It’s the truth. At least I can be honest with him about that. There are so many important things that have to be left unsaid in this conversation. Why does abortion always come up? Why does it pervade my life? I hate that I can’t tell my boyfriend and best friend my most closely held secret. I hate that I can’t tell them about all that I’ve seen.
I hate that.
Goodness and trust seem to be finite nowadays. Secrets are used against people and lives are put in jeopardy. I can’t risk that. Not for you, Ms. Tilson. Not even for Cara and Rowan. It sucks, not being able to talk freely. The weight is almost too heavy to bear. For as much as I can trust Rowan and Cara, I can’t trust that they will keep the secret too. And I don’t want them to be burdened with it like I am.
I want to be honest with them, about all of it. Someday, maybe. But not today.
—Lise
February 15
Night
Dear Ms. Tilson,
I’ve started to think about choices. I guess I really have two options. Keep the baby or give it up for adoption. Those are the only two paths I’d be allowed to take.
But…I know there’s a third path. And I’ve started to think about what would happen if I went down that one instead.
I know I shouldn’t. I know I should not think about that third option. That choice is not allowed in my world. Except it keeps popping up into my brain and I keep tamping it down, like a game of Whac-A-Mole that I can’t ever win.
If my parents ever found out…they would kill me. Maybe not physically kill me, but their shame would be like dying a thousand deaths. They would probably disown me. It would be like Chava in Fiddler on the Roof getting banished for marrying outside the faith. That’s how my dad would be. He could not live with me after making a decision that goes against our faith like that.
Still…
Abortion hangs like a forbidden fruit. There’s no way I can pick it from the tree.
I wouldn’t even know where to go. Okay, that’s not true. I know the clinic. Every day, people from my church protest and pray outside of the building, holding up signs that say CHOOSE LIFE. There’s no way I could walk through that gauntlet without being seen—without being recognized.
I can’t choose that.
But I don’t know that I can go down those two other paths either.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 16
Dear Ms. Tilson—
I know I’m only sixteen, but sometimes I feel like I should know exactly how my life is supposed to go. We’re always told to “think about the fu
ture,” whether it’s SAT prep or considering colleges or other life lessons. Thinking about the future is important, but why can’t we concentrate on now?
I have no idea what I want to do with my life, but I feel so much pressure to have a plan. Everywhere I turn, people are talking about college. When I told Mr. Jacobsen at the start of this year that I wanted to organize a Women’s Day Fair, the first thing out of his mouth was “Oh, that will look great on a college application.” Like that’s the only reason to do it. Like I didn’t want to have a Women’s Day Fair because, you know, it’s good and important for the students at our school.
It doesn’t help that Rowan and Cara know exactly what they want to do. Rowan wants to be a writer. His plan is to go to Oberlin for English lit and do his MFA at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. That’s, like, the next ten years of his life. I can’t even plan this coming weekend. And Cara wants to be a fashion designer and go to FIT. She has a job designing window displays at the mall, and she’s already saving her money so she can take an unpaid internship while she’s at FIT and still be able to pay for expenses. She’s saving for something that’s not going to happen for ages. Whenever I have more than a hundred dollars in my bank account, I spend it at Sephora.
But one thing about me: I’m not afraid of failing. If I go down a path and it doesn’t work out, that’s okay. I’ll just start down a different path. If there’s one lesson I learned from that stupid school board and trying to change the dress code, it’s that I can fail and survive. Not just survive, but get back on my feet with more determination than before. I feel like that’s a lesson they don’t teach in college, so maybe I’m one step ahead.
I also want to change the world. That seems enormous, like a mountain so high I can’t even see its peak. So how am I going to move that mountain? Or really, mountains, because there are so many to be moved. What is it that I want to change most about this world?