“Almost,” I agreed dully.
“What happened?” Vijay asked.
“The guard kicked me, and it made me miscarry.” No point in prettying it up. “But it wasn’t complete, so they aborted the rest of… it.”
“Oh, Becca.” Merry’s face, already blotchy from crying, crumpled again.
“You were pregnant?” Diego knelt in front of me in concern.
I let out a breath. “Yeah. I guess so. I didn’t want to admit it—even to myself. But I was.” I met my roommates’ eyes. “A teacher back home—he raped me. I wanted to tell the police, but right then my pa tried to kill himself. Things were crazy, and by the time Pa was stable, in the hospital, I couldn’t think about anything but him. Anyway. I got pregnant. Well, now I’m not.”
Gingerly I lowered myself onto the bunk and curled up, my back to them. It occurred to me that I was on Robin’s bunk, and I could stay here, sleep here, because Robin was gone. And so was my baby.
I started to cry, muffling it in Robin’s blanket.
“Becca Greenfield!” A guard was waiting for me out in the hall.
Diego, Vijay, and Merry looked shocked that I wouldn’t be given more time to recover, but I wasn’t. I knew not to expect special consideration. I knew not to expect anything anymore.
43
THE GUARD CUFFED MY WRISTS and took me to the classroom. I walked as slowly as I dared, my insides burning with each step. Glancing up at the windows, I longed to catch a glimpse of Hope, but not even my dragonfly was with me now.
The Strepp was already in the classroom, pacing as she always did, rapping a wooden ruler against one palm.
“Sit,” she said.
I did. Obedient Becca. Becca in pain.
Strepp wrote on the whiteboard: “Despite my discouragement, I shall rise again; I will take up my pencil which I have forsaken in my great discouragement, and I will go on with my drawing.” - Vincent van Gogh.
Did she want me to draw something now? An art test?
But she wasn’t done. Her next quote was: “Defeat should never be a source of discouragement but rather a fresh stimulus.” - Robert South.
“Do you know what these quotes mean, Becca?” she asked.
My brain was hardly working well enough to know my own name, but what the hey. I took a stab. “Don’t give up?”
“Yes!” Ms. Strepp pointed her marker at me. “Yes! Truly great people do not see their defeats as steps backward, but merely as steps along their journey.”
Whatever. Okay. I kept quiet, wishing I could get my hands on a bottle of ibuprofen. A whole bottle.
“Do you feel defeated, Becca?” she asked.
For the first time, I met her gaze. Maybe she wanted a rote answer, like, “Never!” or “Yes, I’m ready to do anything you say,” but I gave her question serious consideration. What did defeat mean? On the one hand, I felt pretty damn banged up and abused. I didn’t care if I woke up tomorrow. On the other hand, would I try to break out of here if it meant I could see Cassie again? Hell, yeah.
“Um, I guess not totally?” I hazarded.
Her face took on an expression that I couldn’t fathom. But she said nothing and instead handed me a sheaf of papers: today’s tests.
I did them all as fast as I could and turned them in in record time.
Ms. Strepp glanced at them. “Be careful, Becca,” she said, flipping pages. “Remember—there are executions all the time. You’re on a short list.”
“Yep. Got it,” I said.
She nodded, still looking at me thoughtfully. “You have to do your best.”