The students’ strips are revealed.
John Crass says, “In ten years I
will be HIV positive.”
Mr. Douglas nods and says, “Next.”
Kyung Mee Chung raises her hand and
says, “I’m a lesbian.”
Topher Dodson says, “So am I,” and
everyone laughs except Mr. Douglas, who says, “What’s so funny? Next?”
Sarah Townsend points at Billy
Doogan and says, “Our strips are blank.”
Mr. Douglas walks to his desk and retrieves a sack of apples, red. “Congrats,” he says, handing them to
Billy Doogan, “the condom broke. You and Sarah are the proud parents of an apple baby. You do not believe in abortion. Who has the abortion strips?”
Laura Finney, Jenny Gerber, and Jack
Clough raise their hands. “Right,”
Mr. Douglas says, “the three of you do believe in abortion. You’ll wear T-shirts that read, I HAD
AN ABORTION.”
Laura Finney says, “My paper says I
had two.”
“Then that’s what your shirt will say.”
I laugh, and Laura Finney
glares. Everyone knows she’s
pro-life, and now the ridiculousness of Mr. Douglas’s T-shirt experiment seems
less ridiculous, since Laura Finney has been known to wear pro-life, anti-abortion
T-shirts regularly.
“I contracted HPV and am dying from
cervical cancer.” Jason Speed looks up from his paper and, clearly troubled,
says, “Why didn’t I get vaccinated?”
Aimee-Marie Johns and Sophia
Lawrence have green strips that read, “Raped,” and they are given an apple baby
each. Unlike Sarah Townsend and
Billy Doogan’s, their apple babies are green. Granny Smith apple babies.
“You two,” Mr. Douglas says, “in
addition to the apple babies, will also have to wear T-shirts that read MY BABY
IS THE PRODUCT OF A RAPE.”
Dorian Brazier’s strip reads, “I’m
infertile and want to adopt an apple baby,” and he is given an apple baby to
love and cherish as if it were his own.
Last of all is me. My strip reads, “I am the proud single
parent of a beautiful apple baby.”
Mr. Douglas hands me my apple
baby. Like Dorian Brazier’s, my
sack of apple baby is filled with Golden Delicious. It is heavier than it looks. Fat apple baby.
“Now,” Mr. Douglas says, “don’t let
your babies go naked. Find them
clothes. Feed them. Care for
them. Do not be seen without your
apple babies. If you are seen
without your apple baby—during school, after school, at basketball
practice, at the movies, whenever—you will lose points. If you happen to see someone without
her or his apple baby, or if you happen to see someone abusing her or his apple
baby, whip out those fancy phone cameras I know you all have, snap a picture,
take a video, whatever it is you all do when I’m lecturing up here, and send it
to me. From this point forward,
narcing earns you extra credit. Those of you without apple babies to care for, well, you’ll have your own
issues to deal with. This
experiment will last exactly one month, at which point your seven-page papers
detailing your experiences are to be handed in to me, in person, no exceptions.
Questions? See me after class.”
#
Proud single parent of an apple baby
my ass. I should have gotten the
“I’m a lesbian” strip because I have no intention of becoming a breeder,
ever. I hate babies, apple or
otherwise, except, I guess, for my brother. He was great, before he died. Anyway, I tell Mr. Douglas I don’t need an apple baby and
that I get what he’s doing, it doesn’t take a genius, and I know that having
sex leads to consequences. “Can’t
I wear the I’M A LESBIAN shirt? I
want to write that paper. I’d be
proud to write that paper.”
“But in the future,” Mr. Douglas
says, “your wife’s sister and brother-in-law will die on their way home from
the symphony, and they will leave their apple baby in your care. I’m sorry Teresa, but there’s no
getting out of this assignment.”
#
On the way home, I wham my apple
baby on the ground. Then, instead of
walking on without it, I surprise myself and pick up my apple baby and feel
guilty about the wet splotch on the sidewalk. We pass the Sparkle Market and the movie theatre and Sully’s
Tavern, and I try to ignore my apple baby’s dampness against my blouse but it
grows progressively stickier. I
head to the fire station. Better a
fire station than a ladies room trash can, right?
#
When I get home, I take off my
sticky blouse and stand in front of the bathroom mirror so I can write I LEFT
MY BABY AT A FIRE STATION with a Sharpie on the mirror over the reflection of
my chest. I think about Loretta
Oe, who goes to the other high school, the private one for descendants of the
women who founded Green City. Loretta Oe swore she’d never done it before, but I had three orgasms by
the time she was finished. I’m not
sure I gave her even one. She said
it didn’t matter and pulled me up until we were face to face and she kissed
me. I smelled myself on her
mango-strawberry balmed big pillowy lips, and I thought that besides the smell
of my dead brother’s room, there wasn’t a better smell out there.