9

"YOU KNOW, YOU REALLY OUGHT TO GET OUT A LITTLE," ROSIE SAYSto me the next morning.

We are seated/sprawled in the living room on the opposite ends of the three-seater couch. I am exhausted and twitchy—insomnia and gaming keep me up at night. For want of a life, and to avoid thinking about my former one, I have taken to cross-stitching. It's my mother's thing, that her mom used to do with her back when she was a tween, and now for whatever reason, I'm doing it.

"I go out," I say.

"You mean, you study and you game when you're not studying. I mean hang out with people, do fun stuff. You've become so boring."

"Agnes doesn't exist to make your life interesting," my mother reminds Rosie, entering the room with a load of laundry. She plunks herself down and starts folding clothes, looking a little paler than usual.

"Yo, I'm here," I say. "I can speak for myself."

"All you do is study and work on your college applications."

"I have to do both, and I especially have to study my butt off if I want to get as close to perfect grades as I can, otherwise I can forget about getting even partial academic scholarships if I get into a college in the States."

My mother bites her lip. "Listen…you don't have to worry…It's not…We can—"

I cut her off. "Don't worry, Mom. I'll find a way," I say, pasting a smile on my face. I really don't want her to feel bad about our situation.

The truth is, they can't afford to send me to the US, not even if they liquidate the house. Our family is wrapped in debt. They don't think I know it, but I've seen the bills. So long as Stanley and my mother are employed, everyone is afloat. For now. But nothing is a given.

"As I was saying, Agnes is so boring now and she sighs all the time, it's bloody annoying," Rosie says, throwing up her arms in a dead-on imitation of my mother. She has picked up bloody as an intensifier from her friend Jasmine, who is British. "And look how gormless she looks, splayed out on the couch like a middle-aged ancient—"

"Thanks, sis," I say while my mother says, "Thanks, Rosie," to which Rosie colors and says, "But obviously not you, my mother. You're barely forty-five."

"I'm thirty-seven, but I have accepted my middle-age obsolescence with grace, thank you," my mother says drily.

Rosie powers on. "And she won't even berate me anymore when I slouch, ranting about core control or whatever. It's like she's given up hope on life. I, for one, won't stand for it."

My mother pats my head. "She's just—readjusting. She'll find her old spiky self soon."

"I want my sister back," Rosie cries. "She used to be fun. This shell of a person sucks. Sucks hairy monkey's balls," she adds, remembering my lesson.

"Language," my mother says. "Just say, This shell of a person is not my cup of tea."

"Aw, gee, thanks, both of you," I say irritably. I put my cross-stitching down. "I'm going upstairs to study, where I can be my prickly, sucky self without censure."

"Wait, Agnes, just—sit down, please." My mother stops folding clothes, puts her hands on her lap, and clears her throat. Her hands twitch in her lap. "I, uh, need to tell you girls something." She doesn't look at either of us.

"What is it?" Rosie says suspiciously.

I say nothing as I study my mother. My stomach bubbles with acid.

My mother is blushing. "I'm pregnant," she says, her voice a little unsteady. "About ten weeks, but I thought I should tell you two—"

Rosie screams and throws herself around my mother with the joy of a golden retriever getting a long-awaited treat. "Mom!" she shouts. "You've made me the happiest eleven-year-old today! I get a do-over!"

"Rosie!" my mother says, but she's grinning.

"I'm just kidding, Agnes," Rosie says, her voice muffled by my mother's hair. "I love you, still."

"Thanks, sis. And congrats, Mom," I say, trying to smile again. For some reason my voice is scratching and weak. My insides feel empty, like someone has scraped me empty. I get up and put my arms around my mother for two beats, then break apart.

"I'm so glad you girls are happy," my mother says, and I instantly feel like a shitty brat for not being 100 percent ecstatic. I pick up my cross-stitch and make nonsensical stitches, my pattern forgotten. I hear Rosie and my mother giggle about baby names, and a numbness descends until my fingers weigh like lead.

What's happening to me?

I finish a couple more rows of stitches and excuse myself. I slink upstairs, catching my reflection in the hallway as I enter my room. My posture is indeed terrible. It is the posture of a slug being propped upright on a very hot day. Everything is all wrong.

I throw myself on the bed and bury my face in my pillow. Every muscle in my body weighs like it's made of concrete. I feel friable, like I'll shatter if someone just taps me. If I'd been in a funk since the accident, then this is a new low. I get a do-over! Rosie's voice rings out. It had been a joke, but I felt it in my core. Do-over! Do-over!

I try to read one of my comfort novels, but nothing is sticking. I launch a comedy special, hoping to take my mind off everything. I can't even do what I usually do when life gets overwhelming: go out for a run. I can't outrun this, whatever this new pit is. Even Amina Kaur's jokes fail me.

My mother and Stanley are having a kid. Together.

A tiny, unimportant thought floats to the forefront of my awareness.

Royce's words, telling me that if I ever needed to speak with someone, he'd be there for me, anytime. I flush at the memory of us on the bleachers. The way his touch had irradiated me to the core.

I dig my nails into my palm and hope that the pain drives out the sickness that has infected me, the one that makes me tingle at Royce's touch. Clearly, I had too much time on my hands. I need a distraction.

I pull up the comedy chat and idly scroll through the latest exchange, as I've been doing on the regular since I'd been added on the chat.

Gina:You guys signed up for tonight's open mike? The bar says they are running a special Sunday beer tower promotion and it's going to be a full house. And of course, I'm the headliner tonight so Please! Come! Support!

Hamid:You know it! I'm wearing orange if anyone wants to color-coordinate

Before I know what I'm doing, I have added my name to the bottom of the list and copied and pasted it back to the group.

The chat erupts:

Gina:Oh hey girl! Welcome back!

Milly:Hiiiiii! We haven't met but I've heard about you, see you tonight!

Vern:Aggggggggggggs!!!

Then a private text from Vern: We should hang out, one of these days. Catch up.

My cheeks heat up.

Me:Sure.

Hamid and Kumar text a variation of hi and a row of emojis. Royce is silent.

I text Zee to let her know I'm going to perform, both hoping and not hoping she will be able to join me. She replies with a row of screamy emojis that end with OF COURSE I'M IN, brUHHHHHH!

I drop a text in the group chat for the Hot Flashes with my performance details. I've been told we should avoid inviting people we actually like to our performances in the beginning of our stand-up journey—Kumar and Hamid were especially cautionary—but there's no journey here per se, just a chance to socialize with new and old friends.

The team chat is complimentary, but no one promises to come.