Tamsin Page 5

  “Could you maybe tell the non-scientists what a Schrödinger’s Cat scenario is?” I ask.

  “Sure,” Sam says, as Rikki gives me a why-are-you-encouraging-him look.

  “Basically, you have a cat in a steel box who will die when a radioactive particle decays. But because the decay is unpredictable, you don’t know when it will happen. Until the box is opened, the cat’s state is completely unknown and therefore, the cat is considered to be both alive and dead at the same time until it’s observed. In other words, you have to treat it as if it’s doing all of the possible things—being living and dead—at the same time.”

  “How does that—” I start to say, but Sam just keeps going.

  “If you try to make predictions about the status of the cat, you’re probably going to be wrong. But if you assume it’s in a combination of all of the possible states that can exist, you’ll be correct. Now, as soon as you actually look at the cat, the observer will immediately know if the cat is alive or dead and the ‘superposition’ of the cat—the idea that it was in both states—would collapse into either the knowledge that ‘the cat is alive’ or ‘the cat is dead,’ but not both.”

  My eyes are actually glazing over, but Mena’s nodding like this all makes perfect sense.

  “Schrödinger came up with this paradox to illustrate a point in quantum mechanics about the nature of wave particles,” she says.

  There’s a short silence.

  “Well,” Claire says after a moment. “That was quite something. But I have absolutely no idea how that relates to what Will and I were talking about.”

  “I’m a little fuzzy on that myself,” Will says.

  “My point,” Mena explains, “is that it doesn’t make sense to look at the abortion issue on an individual level as though both possibilities—the fertilized egg becomes a child, or it doesn’t—are realities. That’s only true until the woman makes her choice.”

  Another pause.

  “Yeah…still fuzzy,” Will says.

  Mena sighs. “It’s just that points of decision create timelines. Forks in a person’s life. And there’s absolutely no way to judge the outcome based on what might have happened if you made a different choice. I mean, everyone who knows you is glad you were born, Will. But isn’t it also true that a woman who had an abortion might be glad she made that choice? And that the children she goes on to have might also be glad? I mean, if she didn’t have an abortion when she wasn’t ready to be a mother, her life would have gone in a very different direction. She wouldn’t have had the children she did later on when she was ready. And don’t you think those children are glad they were born, too?”

  Will and Claire speak at the same time.

  “But wouldn’t that—”

  “How can you—”

  They both stop, and Mena shrugs. “I’m just saying that the whole ‘Abortion is wrong because your mom didn’t abort you and aren’t you happy about that’ argument doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Definitely not from a theoretical standpoint,” Sam says.

  “Yes. But also not from a common sense standpoint. I mean, you can’t compare an event that actually did happen to all kinds of hypothetical possibilities. They’re not the same, quantitatively or qualitatively. Life doesn’t work that way. To put it simply, life and potential life are not the same.”

  “There’s a thought experiment about this,” Julia says suddenly.

  She’s been pretty quiet tonight, and we all look at her expectantly. A curl of red hair is straggling out from under the thick green headband she always wears, and she tucks it behind her ear.

  “So…okay,” she says. “Imagine you’re in a fertility clinic. Or, you know, someplace where there are embryos. Say a thousand frozen embryos, all in one container. And they’re viable. I mean, they could become babies if they’re implanted in a woman’s uterus. I don’t know if it’s actually possible to fit a thousand frozen embryos in one container, but—”

  “We’ll assume it’s possible for the sake of the thought experiment,” Sam says.

  “Right. So. The fire alarm goes off and flames are engulfing the building. You only have time to go into one room for a rescue. To your left is the room with the thousand frozen embryos. But in the room to your right there’s a five year old child, terrified and crying for help. What do you do?”

  “Rescue the child,” Dyshell says immediately, and there are murmurs of agreement.

  “Definitely the child,” I say. And in that moment I feel a kind of clarity. The answer seems so obvious.

  Julia looks at Will. “What about you? Not to put you on the spot or anything,” she adds quickly.

  “No, that’s okay,” Will says. “I’d rescue the child, too. No question.”

  Julia nods. “The point is that we don’t really think embryos are the same as children. We think of embryos as potential life, and we don’t think potential life has the same value as actual life.” Her cheeks turn pink. “I thought that might tie in with Mena’s thing,” she adds, almost apologetically.

  “It definitely does,” Mena says. “It sort of navigates what I was talking about from a moral position as opposed to a quantum mechanics position, but—”

  “There’s another perspective on the whole abortion debate we haven’t looked at yet,” Izzy says abruptly.

  She, like Julia, hasn’t said too much tonight. Now we all look at her.

  “What?” Dyshell asks.

  “We could talk to someone who’s actually had one.”

  “Well, sure,” I say. “But no one here has—”

  And then I stop. Because it’s suddenly obvious—to all of us—that one of us has had an abortion.

  None of us says a word. We just sort of sit there, looking at Izzy.

  I finally break the silence. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “If any of this has made you uncomfortable or—”

  “It hasn’t,” she says. “I mean, it’s not something I normally talk about, but you guys are my closest friends. And I was sitting here listening to everyone, and I started thinking that maybe women not talking about their abortions is one reason people feel like it’s okay to talk about them in the abstract, you know? In theory instead of in reality. Because those of us who’ve actually gone through the experience don’t talk about it.”

  “You shouldn’t have to,” Mena says fiercely. “It’s your business and nobody else’s.”

  “I know,” Izzy says. “And I’m not planning to do a Facebook post or anything like that. But you guys have made me think about some stuff.” She pauses. “I don’t remember the procedure very well, because I was sedated. But I cried afterward. Not because I thought I murdered a baby, but because I ended a pregnancy. Potential life may not be the same as life, but it’s something. And choosing to end that potential isn’t nothing. It affects you. Or it affected me, anyway. I didn’t make the decision lightly. It had weight.

  “I’ve wondered what if sometimes, like I do about other things. But there’s never been a time I wished I made a different decision.”

  We all just kind of sit there for a minute. Then Mena and Rikki reach out at the same time to hug her.

  She puts up with it for a moment. Then, “You guys know I’m not a hugger,” she says, and they let her go.

  “Thanks for trusting us enough to tell us that,” Will says. “Especially after what I—”

  “There’s nothing wrong with what you said,” Izzy tells him. “You were talking about something really personal, like I was. Your mom made a choice that was right for her. I just don’t think that means other people have to make the same choice. Isn’t that the point of the pro-choice movement? It’s a decision that should be made by a woman with the people she trusts to make it with her. I mean, there is a pro-life side to this. Only I think it’s on the individual level, not the political level, if that makes any sense.”

  “Yeah,” Will says. “That makes sense.”

  We’re all quiet for a few seconds, looking around at each
other.

  “Man, this night turned intense,” Claire says after a moment.

  “Yeah,” Sam agrees. “But we probably should have expected it when Tamsin invited us over to watch her and Will do an abortion improv. Which they still haven’t done, by the way.”

  “It’s okay,” I put in. “I’m cool. I think I’ve got all the material I need for tomorrow night. Daniel Bowman doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Dyshell is sitting backward on my desk chair, her arms folded across the top and her chin resting on her forearms. Now she straightens and stares at me.

  “Hold up. The guy you’ve been talking about is Daniel Bowman?”

  I nod.

  “I know him. I mean, not well or anything, but I’ve met him. He’s on the team with Andre. He doesn’t party with those guys—Andre says he doesn’t drink—but they all like him.” She turns to Will. “You played with him too, right?”

  Will nods. “Yeah. I didn’t realize it was that Daniel we were talking about. I gotta say, out of all the guys at Hart who might have signed up for a class called Experiments in Drama, he’d be at the bottom of my list. But he’s a really good guy. He’s not a star athlete or anything, but he’s tough as hell and defines the phrase team player.” He hesitates. “I like him.”

  “Well, don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not planning to eviscerate him. I just want to do a good job in my scene. And thanks to you guys, I think I will.”

  “This has been good for me, too,” Izzy says. “The truth is, I was a little worried about my own scene. I don’t know who my partner will be or anything about the setup, but it’s always hard when you have a personal stake. I feel better now, though. More centered.”

  Julia asks her a question then, something about acting, but I’m distracted by a buzz from my phone. When I pull it out of my pocket, I see a little red number one on the Twitter icon.

  I haven’t been on Twitter since last night. I got a mini flood of mentions then, because a bunch of us were tweeting back and forth about abortion, but that convo died down by midnight. I click on my notification tab to see what’s up.

  It’s a direct message. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a direct message on Twitter before.

  I click on the little envelope.

  The avatar is Daniel’s face. The handle is DANIEL BOWMAN, @heartofsaturdaynight.

  A shiver runs through me, quick and intense. I feel cold suddenly, and then hot, like I’m getting a fever.

  There’s something I need to tell you. DM me back if you get this.

  I look up from my phone, waiting for Izzy to finish answering Julia’s question. Then I say,

  “You guys think we should call it a night?”

  Claire nods and gets to her feet. “I still have some work to do before bed.”

  Rikki says, “I hope this doesn’t sound corny, but—” and then she stops.

  “Finish the sentence,” Dyshell puts in. “I like it when you’re corny.”

  “It’s just…well, this is what I always hoped college would be.”

  “People bearing their souls about really personal shit?” Izzy asks, grinning.

  Rikki smiles back at her. “Sort of. I mean, I always wanted to have a group of friends that trusts each other enough to do that. Friends who have fun but can also talk about serious things. Things that matter. Things that aren’t easy.” She looks at Mena. “Even weird quantum mechanics stuff.”

  “We’re lucky,” Mena says softly, looking around at everyone.

  “Yeah, we are,” Will says, getting to his feet and holding his hand out to Claire. “My lady?”

  I roll my eyes. “Every time you call her that, I resent not having a boyfriend. Can’t you come up with an affectionate-yet-insulting nickname? Scruffy or Sneezy or Buttface?”

  Will grins. “Let’s go, Scruffy.”

  We all say our good nights and people start to head out. After a couple of minutes it’s just me, Rikki, and Sam.

  I hold my breath, hoping. Then Rikki says,

  “I think I’m going to spend the night in Sam’s room. If that’s cool with you?” she asks him.

  He gives her a look that probably melts her panties right off.

  “That’s cool with me, yeah.”

  Rikki gets to her feet, her cheeks pink.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tamsin. Lunch?”

  “If I’m up by then. No morning classes for me, so I’ll be sleeping in.”

  “Okay. I’ll text you.”

  Then the two of them are gone, and it’s just me.

  Me and my direct message from Daniel.

  Chapter Eight

  Daniel

  After I leave Trace downstairs, I try to focus on classwork. It even works for a couple hours. But I can’t stop thinking about what Trace said and how much it pissed me off, and eventually I call up another friend—a guy in the engineering department who also goes to our church. He’s on Trace’s side when it comes to a lot of issues, but he isn’t a clueless asshole.

  I hope he’s not, anyway. Because I want a reminder that a man can be conservative without telling women how to feel about rape.

  “Hey, man. What’s up?” Mac says when I call.

  “I have a question for you. Kind of a church thing.”

  “Okay.”

  It’s not really a church thing, but I call it that because I want God to be part of this. I want to get as far away from Trace’s toxic bullshit as I can, and have a conversation that comes from the better angels of our nature.

  So I tell him the whole story. Then I ask,

  “What should I do about Trace? I mean, the dude has issues. Should I confront him? Try to get him to talk to Father Mark? What?”

  Mac is quiet for a few seconds. Then he says,

  “Okay, look. Trace can be a douche, and he shouldn’t be trolling people on Twitter with a fake account. Obviously. But he’s not wrong about those fucking feminists.”

  So much for the better angels of our natures.

  “I mean, I think he should have the balls to talk to them direct, right? But they’d block him if he tried. You know they would. They try to pretend they’re these brave warrior women or something, but they’re total snowflakes. They can’t stand to have a real debate. You know it’s true. They need safe spaces and trigger warnings to even function. They call us intolerant, but they’re the ones who think free speech only applies to people who agree with them.”

  I’ve said that kind of thing myself. Just last night, in fact. After class, I called Tamsin an intolerant liberal. I also called her an anti-religious bigot.

  But before I called Mac, I went on Twitter and read her whole thread about abortion. She didn’t call anybody names—not even “Lisa.” She seemed to be interested in what everyone had to say, although she wasn’t shy about expressing her own views.

  Of course, it’s hard to imagine Tamsin being shy about anything.

  I think that’s what appealed to me freshman year. I loved the way she walked into our dorm like she didn’t give a damn about anything but being herself. She was so sexy, but she didn’t flirt or try to get all the guys to want her or all the girls to be jealous of her. Maybe some guys did want her—God knows I did—and maybe some girls were jealous of her. But Tamsin didn’t care one way or the other. She just cared about Oscar. That was obvious every time she looked at him.

  He didn’t deserve her. The truth is, I don’t know if any guy deserves a girl who looks at him the way Tamsin looked at Oscar.

  But he definitely didn’t.

  Okay, I’m getting distracted. Mac started it with his whole free speech riff, but now I need to get us back on track.

  “All right,” I say. “What’s important is the Trace-is-a-douche part. That’s what I’ve got to deal with, some way or other.”

  “Do you have to deal with it? I mean, can’t you just let it go? I don’t think he means anything by it. He’d never actually rape someone.”

  Because I hang with guys who make fun of feminists, I
have an idea of what the feminist answer to that would be.

  But never, not in a million years, would I have expected that answer to come out of my mouth.

  “Even if he never rapes someone himself, he’s making it easier for other guys to rape. He’s contributing to rape culture.”

  In the silence that follows, that phrase seems to echo in the air.

  “Rape culture,” Mac repeats after a moment. “Rape culture? Are you serious right now? You sound like a social justice warrior.”

  Social justice warrior—SJW—is what guys like Mac and Trace call liberals. I’m no liberal, but I’ve never actually used that phrase as an insult. It’s never made much sense to me. Social justice strikes me as a good thing.

  But I’m not about to get into that. In fact, I’m starting to think calling Mac was a mistake.

  So I say I have to go and end the call. Then I get up and start to pace.

  I find myself looking around my room as if I’m seeing it for the first time. As Tamsin might see it if she came over.

  Most of my decorating—if you can call that—is football-themed. Tamsin probably wouldn’t have a problem with that. I mean, she’s friends with Will and Andre, so she knows jocks.

  I do have a couple of religious things. A cross-stich my mom did of the Lord’s Prayer, hung up above my bookcase. And a watercolor my minister back home gave me—a picture of a waterfall with a quote by George MacDonald.

  I would rather be what God chose to make me than the most glorious creature that I could think of; for to have been thought about, born in God’s thought, and then made by God, is the dearest, grandest, and most precious thing in all thinking.

  I stop in front of that picture and read the words a couple of times. I have a book of quotes by Christian writers, and this one is in it. I copied it out and taped it to the inside of my locker during high school, when it was starting to dawn on me that I wasn’t going to be class valedictorian or a star quarterback…or the best at anything, really. I told Father Warren about that realization and how the George MacDonald quote helped me, and he gave me this picture for graduation.