The Choice (11 page)

“Is it the only school in Atlanta that accepts pregnant girls?”

“Within a reasonable distance of the house. It's good that you can drive your car and avoid riding the bus. The adoption agency is on Roswell Road in Sandy Springs. The ob-gyn who treats many of the women placing their babies for adoption has an office in the same building.”

“I thought you were checking out several agencies.”

“And I settled on this one. I screened four caseworkers at two agencies and made arrangements for you to meet with the best one I talked to.”

“Thanks for doing that.”

Linda picked up a thick book that was on the corner of the table.

“Here's your first homework assignment. This is a text currently used in the human physiology classes at Emory. The first two chapters should bring you up-to-date on your pregnancy. Before you go to bed tonight, I want you to write a six-paragraph summary that includes a history of the study of fetal development through the latest research. There are amazing in utero pictures in the text. Do you know what in utero means?”

“No.”

“You will by tonight. Do you know how to type?”

“Yes, I took typing in eighth grade.”

“There's a typewriter you can use in the study across from the guest room. Double-space. I don't need the eye strain. No typos. Use correction tape if you make a mistake. I'll be checking your grammar too. You begin classes at the school on Tuesday.”

Linda finished her tea and left the table. Sandy watched the carefree birds for a minute and then opened the textbook.

EIGHT

S
andy got out of her car and checked to make sure the doors were locked. She'd parked beside a vehicle that had a white door, a red hood, and splotches of rust everywhere else. On the other side of Sandy's car was a motorcycle with a skull-and-crossbones design on the gas tank. Walking to the school entrance, Sandy heard a boy whistle. She didn't turn around.

Built in the 1930s, the school building was a former junior high saved from destruction by the city's need to provide education for students who, for a variety of bad reasons, couldn't be placed in the regular school system. The tiles on the floor were discolored and cracked. The lights in the classrooms were archaic glass globes. The walls were painted hospital green. Many of the lockers in the hallways were missing latches. Sandy had learned the location of all her classes with the help of the guidance counselor who had set up her schedule the previous day.

She slipped into her homeroom class and sat in the front row. The teacher was a black man in his thirties. He was wearing a white shirt, black tie, and black pants. A group of boys were clustered against the back wall. Several of them looked old enough to be in their early twenties. About ten other students were scattered across the room.

“Hey, foxy lady!” a male voice called out.

Sandy kept her eyes forward.

“I'm not talking to you,” the male voice continued. “You're no lady.”

“And you're a punk,” a female voice responded.

“Quiet,” the teacher said, glancing at a clock on the side wall of the room.

The teacher called the roll. Before he reached Sandy's name, the door opened and a short Hispanic girl with long dark hair entered the room. She shyly approached the teacher and handed him a slip of paper.

“Take a seat,” the teacher said.

The girl looked around. Her eyes met Sandy's, and she sat in the desk beside her.

A few names later, the teacher called, “Sandy Lincoln.”

Sandy lifted her hand slightly.

“Here.”

“Got it,” a different male voice said.

The teacher ignored the boy and continued the roll call. When he finished he looked at the clock again and announced, “Eight minutes until you're dismissed to your first class. You may talk, but don't leave your seats.”

Sandy rearranged the books on the desk so the chemistry text for her first-period class was on top. The dark-haired girl beside her didn't have any books. Sandy leaned over.

“Are you new to the school?” she asked.

The girl nodded but didn't speak. Sandy took a bold step and asked the question again in Spanish. The girl's eyes lit up, and she responded so rapidly that it took Sandy a second to understand her answer.

“What's your name?” Sandy asked.

“Angelica.”

“Where are your textbooks?”

“I don't have any.”

Sandy raised her hand.

“Nice fingernails,” a male voice said.

The homeroom teacher looked at Sandy.

“What is it?”

“Angelica doesn't have any books or know her classes.”

“Who did you talk to in the office?” the teacher asked the Hispanic student.

Angelica shrugged and looked at Sandy, who translated, then listened to her response.

“Señora Jansen,” Sandy replied.

The teacher rolled his eyes.

“She doesn't speak Spanish. Take her back to the office and tell her to meet with Mrs. Matute.”

Once they were in the hallway, Angelica started peppering Sandy with questions. Sandy had to ask her to slow down. They reached the office and found Mrs. Matute.

“How is she going to attend classes if she can't speak English?” Sandy asked the administrator.

“I speak English,” Angelica said, to Sandy's surprise. “Talk slow.”

“We have to give her a chance,” Mrs. Matute said with a bored expression on her face. “Her transcript indicates she was in accelerated classes on the college prep track at a private school in Monterrey.”

“Why is she here?” Sandy asked.

“Baby,” Angelica answered, pointing to her stomach.

“Oh,” Sandy said. “Me too.”

Angelica's eyes lit up again, and she gave Sandy a hug.

“Here's your schedule,” Mrs. Matute said to Angelica in Spanish. “Sandy, what courses are you taking?”

Sandy rattled off her classes. Mrs. Matute made a few pencil marks.

“Angelica is in four of your six classes, including chemistry, algebra II, civics, and”—Mrs. Matute looked up and gave a wry smile—“Spanish II.”

Sandy and Angelica entered chemistry class together. The female teacher was already lecturing. She directed Sandy and Angelica to a table for two.

“We're on page ninety-six,” the teacher said.

The teacher wrote a formula on the chalkboard.

“Can anybody complete the formula?”

Angelica looked at Sandy, who whispered the question. Angelica immediately raised her hand.

“Come to the board and finish it,” the teacher said.

Sandy nudged Angelica, who walked to the front of the room. The teacher handed her a piece of chalk, and Angelica rapidly wrote the additional steps on the board.

“Correct,” the teacher said and nodded approvingly. “Return to your seat.”

Sandy spent the rest of the class taking notes and watching Angelica flip through the textbook until she reached the last fifty pages. When the bell rang, the teacher asked Sandy and Angelica to stay after class for a minute.

“I'm Mrs. Welshofer,” the teacher said to the girls.

Sandy introduced herself and Angelica.

“Where did you go to school?” the teacher asked Angelica.

“Monterrey, Mexico.”

“And you?” she asked Sandy.

“Rutland High.”

Angelica spoke in a quick burst of Spanish.

“She says she likes chemistry,” Sandy said. “It's her favorite subject.”

“If her work today is any indication, she won't have a problem with this class,” Mrs. Welshofer replied. “Sandy, can you translate quietly if she has a question?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Then do so. I'll trust you to keep to the material.”

The two girls were separated during the next period. Sandy went to a European history class that contained eight students. Two of the girls in the class were wearing wedding rings. When she reconnected with Angelica in algebra II, the Hispanic girl gave her another hug and an even bigger smile. Angelica's command of algebra paralleled her abilities in chemistry.

At lunchtime, Sandy and Angelica went to the cafeteria together. As they pushed their trays down the line, Sandy saw that Angelica was wearing multiple rings, but her ring finger was bare. As they carried their trays to a table for two against the wall, a large young man stepped in front of them.

“Hey, dolls,” he said. “Some of my friends and I would like to get to know you.”

He pointed at a long table where four boys and two girls were sitting. The girls arched their necks and eyed Sandy. The group didn't look rough, but Sandy wanted to be cautious.

“Not today,” she replied. “I need to help Angelica with her English.”

The boy, who had an unshaven face with thick black stubble, looked down at the Hispanic girl.

“Qué pasa?”
he said to Angelica, who rattled off a response that drew a blank stare.

Sandy had to stifle a laugh. Angelica had told the boy that she wouldn't go out with a fat pig who had bristles on his face.

“Right, check you later,” the boy said.

When they reached the table, Sandy asked Angelica what she would have done if the boy had understood Spanish. Angelica smiled and shrugged.

“His accent was terrible. And he didn't scare me.”

The rest of the school day Sandy and Angelica stuck together. In civics class, Sandy spoke to the teacher, an older woman named Mrs. Borden, and received permission to help Angelica navigate the complexities of American government and culture. In Spanish II, the teacher, a young woman from South Carolina, called Angelica to the front of the small class to read a poem by a Spanish poet.

“I'm so glad Angelica has joined us,” said the teacher when Angelica finished. “Her accent and pronunciation are so much better than mine. It's what you'd hear from a well-educated Spanish-speaking person.”

After sixth period, Sandy asked Angelica if she could give her a ride home. The girl shook her head and pointed to her stomach.

“The father, he come for me.”

They walked outside the building together. Parked next to the curb was a shiny blue Buick. A good-looking Hispanic man in his midtwenties and wearing a dark suit got out and called out sharply to Angelica. She gave Sandy a final hug and walked quickly over to the car. The man spoke in a harsh voice, but Sandy couldn't make out what he said. Angelica got in the car and left. Sandy had a sinking feeling that behind Angelica's infectious smile there might be a mountain of sorrow.

After supper, Sandy called home to report on her first day. Angelica's presence had totally changed her attitude toward the school.

“You almost sound excited,” her mother said when Sandy paused.

“I know,” Sandy replied. “It's like I've found something I'm supposed to do.”

“You mean become a translator? I know you're good in Spanish, but I thought you wanted to study interior decorating.”

“I'm not thinking that far ahead. I meant here at the school. I can help Angelica until her English improves. She's very smart.”

Sandy's father was attending an executive board meeting for the Rotary Club and wasn't at home.

“Tell Daddy I kept to myself at school, except for Angelica, and nobody bothered me. It helped a bunch having someone to sit with in the cafeteria.”

“How was the food today?”

“Yucky, but I'm eating healthy with Linda. She read a book about nutrition for expectant mothers and bought some extra groceries.”

“Is she cooking?” her mother asked in surprise.

“We do it together. She says I need to learn how to live on my own.”

“Okay, obey her without arguing,” her mother said.

“Yes, ma'am.”

After the phone call ended, Sandy went into the study. Linda handed Sandy a stack of papers.

“This is a copy of the Supreme Court's decision in
Roe v. Wade
. Read sections one through four. It's background stuff. Don't take notes. I'm going to ask you questions about it tomorrow afternoon when I get home from work.”

“If you're going to ask questions, why can't I take notes?”

“Because I want you to remember what you read without a crutch.”

“May I read it more than once?”

“Absolutely.”

That night Sandy propped up in bed and read the first four sections of the case. Justice Blackmun went into great detail about whether a married woman who wasn't pregnant and a doctor who wanted to perform abortions should be parties to the lawsuit. While Sandy was hacking her way through the dense verbiage, Lillo came into the room meowing. Sandy put the cat in the bed and stroked her soft fur. The abortion case originated in Dallas. When she saw the word
Texas
, Sandy thought about Brad and wondered if the father of the pregnant woman in the lawsuit was the reason the plaintiff wanted the abortion. After the third reading, Sandy felt she was beginning to get a fairly good grasp of the material. It made her wonder if she had what it took to become a lawyer. She yawned and carried Lillo into the laundry room. Peaches was already curled up in the cat bed.