“Won’t they call the police?” Rasul asked me as I lay on the couch again that night, this time in his arms as I leaned against him. I felt dizzy and intoxicated as our tongues swirled around each other’s, as he was careful to keep his hands above the line I had told him not to cross. In my mind, I thought about the first day I had ever seen him, the night I had gotten pregnant, and how I wished he had been the one. This must be the way the marriage love started, and I knew I just had to get rid of this baby if it was ever gonna start again. Nobody like him was gonna want me after this—with baggage and another mouth to feed. Fuck that. Being waited on, being talked to, being held, being slow with it all—this felt too damn good. A dream I had had for a long time was finally coming true—that a boy I liked finally liked me back, wanted me, if only for one night.

“Maybe,” I answered, and we started kissing again until we fell asleep hazed by the glow of love songs on BET.

The next morning, our second together, I made him wake and find me a piece of paper and an envelope. He ripped out a sheet from the Mead notebook where he did his math homework. I wouldn’t let him see what I wrote in the note to my mother, and made him promise not to open the Commonwealth Edison payment envelope after I had sealed it shut with saliva I had to muster from deep inside, since my throat had gone dry with terror as I pondered what Ma was thinking—and what would be done to me when I got home. There was no need to confess my predicament now. I still hadn’t decided what I was going to do.

Friday November 20, 1992

Ma,