In Every Way Read Free

takes Maria’s hand. “I know what you’re saying, though. I do. Put on Hello Kitty. Seriously. No, I’m just kidding. But seriously, though. Yeah, put it on.”
    Maria lifts the Hello Kitty mask from its perch on her bedpost and places it on her cold face. Jack pops the elastic on the widest part of her skull.
    â€œNow say something,” he says. “No rapping. Say it in Maria.”
    â€œYou’re a piece of crap,” Maria says.
    Jack kisses her neck.
    â€œI tell you to pull out,” Maria says. “And you what? You don’t pull out.”
    Jack pushes her onto the bed. Maria adjusts herself so that he may lie more comfortably atop her.
    â€œI should put razorblades inside me so that your wiener shreds if you ever do me again,” she says.
    â€œI know,” Jack says. “I know.”
    â€œYou read my mom’s books while I cry in Art History and everyone fucking stares at me,” she says.
    â€œI know,” Jack says. “I know.”
    â€œI am so stupid,” Maria says. She cries under her mask, thrilled and confused with desire. “This is so messed up.”
    â€œI know,” Jack says.
    â€œWhat am I going to do?” Maria says, running her hands inside Jack’s shirt.
    â€œI know,” Jack says.
    â€œI asked you,” Maria says.
    â€œDon’t think about it,” Jack says, kissing her neck. “We have time.”
    They make love for more than five minutes. Afterward, Jack says, “Jump in. The Talwin’s perfect.” He licks his lips and runs his fingertips across Maria’s eyelids. She considers revealing that, unlike him, she actually read the label and cannot in fact take the drug even if she wanted to.
    MARIA’S PHONE RINGS . It is close to 1:00 AM . Calls at this hour are not uncommon. With chemotherapy, her mother’s sleep schedule has become erratic. But the phone has been silent since Maria told her mother she was pregnant. It is a pattern her mother repeats often, falling silent for days when confronted with decisions or complex family drama, trusting time as the best tool for perspective. The pregnancy has triggered the latest stretch of silence, but it has all been expected. Maria has been avoided, and has thus avoided back. This phone call now signals the resumption of normal relations.
    â€œIt was so good to see you today,” her mother says. “I have to know what you did.”
    â€œNow’s not a good time,” Maria says. “Jack is here.”
    â€œHe should know too,” her mother says. “Have you been to a doctor?”
    â€œI don’t even know how to make an appointment,” Maria says. The years of her life stretch away before her, definitively parentless and adult.
    â€œWhat does Jack think?” her mother says.
    Jack lies on the bed, ash falling from his cigarette onto the pillow. The cell phone is loud enough for him to hear Maria’s mother’s voice, tinny and bright and insistent.
    â€œâ€™Sup, Dr. M,” he says.
    â€œI don’t know what he thinks,” Maria says.
    â€œLook,” her mother says. “We’ve been talking about it. He says he’ll do whatever you want.”
    â€œYou’ve been talking about it?” Maria says.
    Jack shrugs and exhales a spiraling ring of smoke.
    â€œThen you tell me,” Maria says. “Both of you. What do you want?”
    â€œI want to have a thousand grandchildren,” her mother says. “I want to go back to the beach. I want to live forever.”
    â€œI want whatever you want,” Jack says.
    Before falling asleep, Maria closes herself into the bathroom. She sits on the toilet and presses her fingertips into her stomach, kneading the flesh that Jack once swore felt exactly like biscuit dough. She imagines what it would feel like to be propped in bed, holding a sleeping baby. But there is no precedent. Maria has no nieces or nephews, no