"Mom?" I called up the stairs. No answer. "Moooooooom?" Finally, my mother's head poked over a stair railing above. She wore a tight cap on her head, and little sprigs of hair popped out in a seeming random pattern all over. Although I didn't feel like laughing, I forced a giggle.
"I'm highlighting my hair," Mom explained, smiling. "You need something, honey?" Oh, do I, I thought, but I shook my head.
"No, Mom. It's just that Mary Anne and I are going to the mall. We'll be back in a few hours."
"Oh, I wish I could join you!" Mom said. "I've been meaning to get you one of those ponchos they have out now." (Shudder. Ponchos are so last year.) "Anyway, have fun and be careful!"
"Will do," I said, trying not to sound solemn. It was a teacher work day, so all of the students of Stoneybrook High School had the day off. I should be having the time of my life. "Love you."
"Love you too," she said. From my driveway, Mary Anne Spier leaned on the horn of her battered Honda Civic. This was the first time in my memory that Mary Anne hadn't come to meet me at the front door. Then again, it'd been a long time since I had met Mary Anne for anything. I scooped up my keys and headed out the front door.
Mary Anne had one arm out the window and was ashing a cigarette. "Door's open," she called gesturing towards the passenger side of the car.
"Mary Anne!" I exclaimed. "I didn't know you smoked!" It was crazy, seeing her with that cigarette in her hand. Mary Anne was the most reserved friend I'd ever had. She wore her hair in braids through the seventh grade, and her idea of a sexy outfit used to be a Laura Ashley jumper with a ruffle near the bust.
"Gateway drug, right?" Mary Anne said wryly. She was wearing a black cardigan with a fuscia kitty cat embroidered on the lapel, a sheer white top underneath, a thigh-high black pleated skirt, and black and white tights. On her small feet were clunky Doc Martens. "Well, I don't smoke, most of the time. Only when I drink."
"You've been drinking?" I asked, flabbergasted and slightly worried. Mary Anne was pulling on to the freeway, exiting Stoneybrook.
"This is the right way, right?" she said. I nodded and felt some relief as the town disappeared behind us. We were on our way to New York City. "I usually take the train in. Well, of course," she said nervously. "Just this time we can't -- And of course I haven't been drinking. I'm just a tad stressed today, what with driving you to New York to get your abortion."
The word hung heavily in the air for a long minute. I didn't know what to say. Just the sound of the word – abortion – was like a sucker punch in my already-tender stomach. The only time I'd spoken it out loud was when I, in a moment of desperation, called Mary Anne on the phone and asked if she would drive me to my appointment.
"Maybe I shouldn't have asked you," I said softly. "I mean, I hope I'm not... putting you out."
"Of course not," Mary Anne sighed, softening. I studied her profile and watched the hard edges melt from her face. Behind the wheel, I saw the soft, quiet Mary Anne I used to know emerge from beneath this girl's heavily lined eyelids and maroon lipstick. I had to admit, by the way, that her new look was fabulous, in a retro punk kind of way. I just didn't like the new personality that seemed to go along with it. "Frankly," Mary Anne continued, "I just don't get it. Why did you call me, Stacey? We haven't been friends for years now."
It was true. Back in middle school, Mary Anne and I had belonged to a club that we goofily called The Baby-Sitters' Club. Mary Anne's best friend, Kristy Thomas, had founded the club, and we all thought that we would be friends forever. I shared a lot of laughs, a lot of baby-sitting jobs, and a lot of pizza toasts with those girls, back in the day. But things had been different ever since we entered high school. I got tired of sitting at the dork table, tired of not being able to go to the high school parties because I was baby-sitting, tired of hanging out with girls who seemed like, mentally, they would be forever stuck in the eighth grade. When I got passed over for freshman homecoming princess nominations, I knew that it was time to move on. I had finally outgrown the BSC for good.
I thought about Mary Anne's question. "I called you because you're the most solid person I know," I said. "It was a big risk. I was afraid you'd judge me. Mary Anne?"
I could see Mary Anne's shoulders tense up again. She was hardening, putting on that tough front. "A lot of people call me M.A. now," she said stiffly. "Anyway, you thought I might judge, but you still called me?"
"I don't know," I said quickly. Then, "I haven't seen you in years. Claudia – well, things are still bad. We have some friends in common, but she acts like she doesn't know me. I guess I do the same thing. You're just so nice, Mary Anne. And so understanding. I knew you'd be... a comfort," I finished.
"Well. I hope I can be." That was the Mary Anne I knew: soft, vulnerable. Sweet, caring. "I wish you wouldn't say you haven't seen me. I've been right here all along."
"We didn't have any classes together --"
"American History, third period, last year."
"You were in that class?" I said, dumbfounded.
"It's a small school, Stacey. It's not like we live in New York City."
"I guess I spent a lot of time talking to – oh, it doesn't matter. I can't believe I didn't notice, though. Anyway. We had different friends. I didn't even realize -- I didn't even realize you'd changed. I mean, you seem to be dressing differently now. And smoking!"
Mary Anne laughed in a way that almost sounded bitter. "People change," she said. "I think I'm the same person inside, though. I'm here, aren't I?"
"You're here," I agreed, and turned toward the window, watching the trees pass by in an autumn-colored blur.
I hadn't planned to get an abortion. Then again, I'd never planned to get pregnant. I've always been a staunch pro-lifer. I know, I know, you'd never expect it. After all, I'm from NYC. You know, the Big Apple? New York City. It's just that I've always loved babies. I can't think of any other way to explain it. One time, at Stoneybrook Hospital, I saw the protesters with their big, red, gory posters. I thought about the posters and I thought about little Lucy Newton when she was born, and I couldn't stand to think about her getting murdered. At school, I joined the Young Republicans Club. I'm a fiscal Republican, too.
After cheerleading practice, my best friend, Grace Blume, and I often climb the hill on the other side of the SHS soccer field. Usually, we sit under a tree and smoke a joint. We're very enlightened. Grace couldn't believe that I was pro-life. "Didn't you see Dirty Dancing?" she asked sleepily one day. "If Roe Vs. Wade gets overturned, people will go back to having illegal abortions and stuff. Women... they get all cut up and shit. Sometimes they die. That's fucked up."
"Yeah. That's fucked up," I agreed. I felt like my mouth couldn't move quickly enough to say all the things I wanted to say. "But you know what's really fucked up? Dead babies. Babies are... sweet. And innocent. You know?"
Grace dissolved into giggles. "You're such a fucking baby-sitter, Stacey," she said.
"Sit... on... this," I said slowly, raising my middle finger. I laughed until my side ached.
In the car, Mary Anne was humming under her breath. The radio was silent. "La la love you," she sang. "La, la, love you. I love you, I do." Suddenly, she stopped, as if she realized she was being too cheerful.
"Did you make that up?" I asked, trying to be polite.
"It's the Pixies."
"Oh." I'd never heard of the Pixies. I really like punk music, though. Good Charlotte is one of my favorite bands. I figured Mary Anne was into punk, because of the way she was dressed. "Do you... go to concerts and stuff?" I asked.
"Sometimes," Mary Anne said shortly. "I still like classical music, too. My dad and I went to several symphonies last year. Do you say 'and stuff' a lot these days? You've said it several times now."
"I have?" I couldn't decide if Mary Anne was just curious or if she was trying to insult me.
"Yes." I could hear the sound of my watch on my wrist, ticking away. "I have another question for you," Mary Anne said.
"Ask away."
"Was this... an easy decision for you?"
I couldn't think of the words to describe how hard it had been.