So I pulled out my cell phone and called Devi. I’d normally text her, but this was big enough news that it warranted the call. She was still in Connecticut, but was coming back after Shabbos that weekend.

“Killlll meeeeee,” Devi rasped in greeting.

“Hi. Hey. Why?”

“I’m melting. Bubbe keeps the house at six zillion degrees and it’s four thousand percent humidity. I’m going to have zits the size of meteors. Green tea sheet mask, thy name is God.”

This was the part of the conversation where we’d normally spiral off into talking about skin care, both of us fully riding the Korean skin-care train, but not then. Then it was, “Devi, I’m in trouble.”

“You okay? What’s wrong? Who’re we killing?”

“I just got back from the doctor and I’m pregnant. Please don’t—just don’t... No ‘I told you so’ or anything, okay? I just found out and I’m really upset.” And that was when the tears started. Not at the doctor’s office. Not with my mom in the car when she told me we’d figure it out. Not with Mormor. With Devi, on the phone, by myself in the dark of a bedroom that didn’t feel like mine but would be mine soon. Devi gasped and then went quiet, which only made me cry all the harder, because what if she didn’t want to be my friend anymore? What if her parents decided I was “a bad kid” and didn’t let Devi hang out with me because I’d corrupt her with my rampant slutitude?

If I get an abortion, they wouldn’t have to know it’d even happened.

Except I wasn’t sure I wanted one yet. I wasn’t raised religious, I didn’t have any dogma to contend with or staunch familial teachings. I’d always viewed it as a person’s choice, to each their own. But the reality was, I was almost three months along. The fetus was maybe getting sorta human-like in there, and I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with the idea of a medical eviction. I had nothing to say about anyone else making that choice! But for me, I just... It sat wrong. Mom would probably have something to say about it later, maybe she’d sway me one way or the other, but I was leaning toward a “don’t do it.”

Adoption? Possible, a good possibility, in fact, but again, I’d want feedback.

Devi’s here, on the line, now. She’s smart.

I trust her.

“I’m not sure what I want to do yet,” I managed, warbling. I used my sleeve as a tissue because desperate times and desperate measures and boogers stopped for no woman. “About the baby.”