Chapter 12 #2
I feel the air leave my lungs in a rush. “Cori! I thought you were the patron saint of birth control!”
“I know! I am!” She sits up, the movement dragging the duvet away and letting a fresh, biting chill into our little pocket of warmth.
She shoves her hair back, her shoulders hunching up toward her ears.
“It was a fluke. A five-minute lapse in judgment.” She looks at me, her eyes wet and searching.
“I didn’t think anything would actually stick!
That’s a cautionary tale you hear in high school health class, Annie. It’s not supposed to be my life.”
“And yet,” I whisper. The word feels heavy, like it’s made of lead.
“Yeah. And yet.”
“Do you know his name?”
She lets out a bitter sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “I was three gins in. I barely remember if he had a face, let alone a last name. I think he said he was from Queens? Or maybe he just liked the Mets? It’s all a blur.”
I’m reeling. Cori is the most organized person in my orbit.
She’s the girl who keeps her closet organized by color and never forgets to hydrate.
She doesn’t even walk to the bodega without her keys, a backup set of keys, and a plan for if the bodega is closed.
And now she’s pregnant by a stranger in a dive bar.
She rests her hand on her stomach—flat and trembling under her oversized T-shirt.
“I started feeling nauseous a week ago, but I just blamed the stress from ballet. Or the fact that I’ve been drinking way too much on my nights off.
” Her eyes go wide, terrified. “Oh god, Annie! I’ve been smoking pot!
A lot of pot. What if I’ve already messed everything up? ”
She starts to shake again, full-body sobs. I reach out and start rubbing her back in slow, grounding circles, feeling the heat of her skin through the cotton.
“Hey, listen. It’s going to be okay. Truly. Think about us kids born in the sixties and seventies—we were basically marinated in second-hand smoke and fondue, and we turned out fine. Most of us are lawyers now.”
She lets out a wet, hiccuping laugh, wiping her nose with the heel of her hand. “That’s true. My mom was at Woodstock when she was eight months along with me. She probably didn’t have a sober breath for nine months.”
I nudge her shoulder. “See? You’re just following the family tradition.”
She smiles, but it’s a fragile, paper-thin thing. She pulls her knees up to her chest, trying to take up as little space as possible. “Do you think the worst of me? Be honest.”
“What? Cori, no. Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Do I look like an irresponsible disaster? Like…a whore?”
“No.” I cut her off instantly, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her into me. I want to physically block that thought from reaching her. “I don’t think any of those things. I think you’re my friend and you’re in a tough spot. That’s it.”
She slumps against me, her head heavy on my shoulder. Since she’s got a good four inches on me, she has to fold herself down like a lawn chair to fit. We sit there in the freezing gray light of the morning, the radiator clanking out a metallic, rhythmic heartbeat in the corner.
“Do your parents know?” I ask softly.
“Not yet.” She lets out a long, rattling breath. “You’re the first person I’ve told.”
A lump forms in my throat. I’m stunned, honestly.
Cori is the life of the party, all bubbly charisma and quick wit, but she’s a vault when things get real.
She deflects personal questions like she’s in a fencing match.
The fact that she came to me first—that she crawled into my bed to share this—it makes me feel like I finally have a home here.
It means we aren’t just roommates sharing the rent; we’re a family.
“I’m surprised you haven’t told Marcus,” I admit.
“I only saw the blue lines this morning. And he’s been over at Brett’s since Tuesday anyway.”
I can’t help the small grin that tugs at my mouth. “He’s going to love being the fun uncle. He’ll have that kid in a sequined onesie before it can even crawl.”
A real smile finally breaks across her face, genuine and warm. I can see it too: Marcus with a baby on his hip, already planning a Broadway-themed nursery.
Then the gravity hits me again, and I realize I’m getting ahead of her. “I mean—if you keep it. I’m not assuming anything. You’ve got choices, Cori. And whatever you decide, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The silence in the room is heavy with all the things we aren’t brave enough to say yet.
“Do you know yet?” I ask. My voice is barely a thread. “If you’re keeping it?”
She’s quiet for so long I think she’s fallen back into a restless sleep.
Then, a long, rattling exhale. “I don’t know.
I think so? I can’t imagine handing a part of myself away.
But Annie, the idea of raising a kid in this…
” She gestures vaguely toward the window, where the gray New York sky is pressing against the glass. “It’s terrifying.”
“Because it’s New York?”
“Because it’s 1994,” she says, pulling the duvet tighter until we’re a heap of limbs and wool.
“Everything feels crazy right now. When we were kids, my parents let us run wild through Queens until the streetlights came on. Nobody locked their doors. Now? People go to work at the Trade Center and don’t come home because of a car bomb in the parking garage.
The news is just a constant loop of carnage. ”
Her voice drops, turning brittle. “And the AIDS crisis…it’s everywhere and nowhere.
People are scared to touch subway poles.
Then there’s the crime, the carjackings.
Remember the riots in Crown Heights? Or that poor girl, Polly Klaas, taken right out of her own bedroom while her mom was home?
I look at the world and I see a minefield.
How do I protect a baby from a place that seems like it’s falling apart? ”
She presses her palm against her stomach, a reflexive, maternal flinch.
“My grandmother lived three doors down from us in Queens,” she whispers.
“We had neighbors who actually looked out for each other. Now I’m twenty-five, I share a room that’s basically a walk-in closet, and I can’t afford new pointe shoes without skipping a few meals.
I’m still trying to figure out how to be a person, and the world is already demanding I be a mother.
How do I buy formula and a crib when I can barely pay for subway tokens? ”
I don’t give her the “it’ll be fine” speech. I don’t have the heart to lie to her. Instead, I just hold her while she cries, thinking about how right she is. The world has tilted on its axis.
In 1984, the fear was at least singular.
We had Reagan and the “Evil Empire” and those “Duck and Cover” drills at school.
We’d huddle under our desks like a piece of plywood would save us from a nuclear strike, but at least the threat had a face.
Life back then happened in two tiny windows: the six o’clock and eleven o’clock news.
If you missed them, you just…went on living.
You weren’t constantly plugged into the tragedy of the week.
Now, in 1994, the windows are being smashed open. There’s this new, intense energy to the way we consume the world. It’s not just Dan Rather or Tom Brokaw telling us what happened once the sun goes down. We have CNN now—twenty-four hours of “Breaking News.”
I’ll never forget that night in June when the TV screen fractured in half.
My dad and Daniel were at the Garden with floor-seat tickets for the Knicks-Rockets finals, but back at our house, the game became background noise.
Eileen, Mom and I were just sitting there, completely flabbergasted, staring at a split TV screen.
On one side, the frantic squeak of sneakers; on the other, a grainy aerial of O.J.
Simpson’s white Bronco on Los Angeles’ 405.
It was a national parade of the macabre—ninety-five million of us watching a man drive toward his end at thirty-five miles per hour, as if our collective staring could change the outcome.
For my parents, it wasn’t just a news story; it was a personal demolition.
Dad had been a Buffalo Bills fan since the sixties, and he’d eventually become good friends with O.J.
through the industry. He and Nicole had been frequent guests at my mother’s lavish dinner parties.
They were the type of people who felt permanent in our lives—the ones who’d drop by for Sunday brunch at the Pierre or share a box at the US Open, laughing over gin and tonics while the sun set over the court.
They’d spent New Year’s Eves at our place, Nicole always smelling of expensive lilies and O.J.
commanding the room with his easy, Heisman-winning charm.
I still remember the look on Mom’s face when the news first broke that Nicole had been murdered in her own front yard.
It wasn’t the practiced, dramatic shock of an actress; it was a hollowed-out horror.
Nicole had sat at our dining room table.
She had laughed at my father’s jokes. She had gone shopping with me and my mother on the weekends.
She had held my mother’s hand while they whispered about the pitfalls of being married to famous men.
And now, we were watching her husband lead a low-speed chase through Los Angeles like a scene from one of Dad’s movies, and she was gone forever.
That night changed the chemistry of the news.
It proved that “Live” was more valuable than “Polished.” Part of me—the part that still dreams of standing in front of a camera with a microphone, telling the truth to millions—is electrified by this.
I want to be in the middle of that chaos.
I want to be the one who translates the mess into something people can understand.
I want to be the voice that bridges the gap between the event and the living room.