“Settle down, guys,” MJ said. That command from any other teacher might’ve needed to be issued a couple of times, but MJ, with his shoulder-length dreads, and his sweater sleeves rolled up revealing the various tattoos running up his ripped forearms, never had to issue any orders more than once. “I know you’re probably wondering why I’m the one teaching this course instead of Coach Scott. The simplest answer is I volunteered.”

He let it hang, his gaze sailing to Mister Terrier, whose chin cocked like some kind of silent dare in the back of the room. MJ rolled his eyes, kept going. “The more complicated version has to do with there being some changes to the approved sexual education—”

“Healthy Living, Mister Jay,” Terrier interrupted.

MJ heavy-sighed. “—Healthy Living curriculum. When my colleagues and I were informed, and some of the physical education faculty expressed discomfort with the changes, I felt compelled to step in. This happens to fall during my free period, so it worked out.”

Qwan’s hand popped up.

MJ said, “Yeah, Qwan?”

“What changed? Healthy Living seem the same as when it was called Family Living last—”

“That’s enough with the interruptions,” said Terrier.

“I didn’t interrupt anything. I raised my hand and MJ called on me.”

“You know that tone doesn’t fly with me, young man.” Terrier unstuck himself from the wall, trudged toward us, reaching into his jacket pocket. Damn Qwan.

“What tone? All I’m doing is asking a question.”

Terrier’s pad of detention slips appeared like a gunslinger’s six-shooter.

“That’s not necessary.” MJ’s words dripped disgust.

If Terrier cared about MJ’s assessment, we couldn’t tell. He scribbled Qwan’s name and particulars on the slip, and handed over a carbon copy. “For disrupting class, Mr. Reid. See you this afternoon.” Then, to MJ, “Continue.”

When Terrier turned away, Qwan mouthed What the fuck?

MJ’s scowl was ice. “Regarding the change, there’s been a push to augment the abstinence-only aspect of the program formerly known as Family Living. So, while topics will be similar to the old format, there will be some additional direction on contraception, STD prevention, and resisting peer pressure up to, and including, any sort of ill-advised pacts.”

I straightened in my chair, understanding. Others did too, evident by the chuckles around the room.

Pacts. It all made sense now.

MJ was talking about The Baby-Getters Club.

To be clear, there was no pact. Or outbreak—another word the TV stations ran with before they settled on the most popular term for what happened. All of that conspiracy BS was fiction. The simultaneous pregnancies were real, obviously. All nine of them.

Nine girls of different grades—freshman to senior—different races, family income level. Nothing in common except aspirations to have a diploma from Green Creek High School someday. How’d it happen? That was the part the adults couldn’t wrap their heads around. To be honest, I don’t think they tried very hard. When bellies swelled, and the state of things was impossible to ignore, the town mostly discussed the pregnancies in whispers. As if speaking on them too loudly would spontaneously create another baby.