Setting:                                    America.

At Rise:                                    A line across the middle of the stage. An empty chair on one side of it. Black­out. A woman is stand­ing in front of the chair when

lights come up.

ABIGAIL

Hi.

(Pause. She looks around. She sits in the chair.)

I want to tell you a story. I’ll warn you that I don’t remem­ber the ending and some of the middle is foggy. But I think that it’s impor­tant. And I think I want you to know.

(As ABIGAIL speaks, she ties her hair in braids and wraps ribbons around

them.)

It starts with me. My name is Abigail. I don’t like when people call me Abby because Texas has too many Abbys and that’s where I’m from. I grew up thirty minutes from Dallas, where it seems like the only thing people can agree on is that the last good year was 1996, when the Cowboys last won a Super­bowl. My parents are nice, middle-aged sub­ur­ban­ites. I have a little brother and a little sister. I’m eigh­teen and, in the fall, I’ll be going to UT for cre­ative writing. UT is so annoy­ing to get into nowa­days that it seems idiotic to be study­ing writing instead of busi­ness, but I’d rather not be a husk of a person by age thirty-five.

The story starts on prom night. One thing we should get out of the way: I’m pretty. Like, not super­mod­el pretty, but pretty enough that every boy in our prom group is flirt­ing with me and all the girls look at the black velvet dress hugging my body like they want to grow talons and rip it to shreds. I like it. It was a fairly recent devel­op­ment for me, being pretty, and it’s the first time I’ve ever felt any kind of power. Also, a fairly new devel­op­ment: this group of friends. I decided it was high time to quit the Vaca­tion Bible School crowd that gasped and threat­ened to tell their mothers when I put real rum in my piña colada. These people are the oppo­site of that. They drink, they drive too quickly, they smoke mar­i­jua­na. I’ve become one of those girls that has more male friends than female, but that’s only because the boys are much nicer to me. Still, I wish one of the girls would care, even a little bit, that I was there. I think a break from the boys might be nice. Some­times it gets a little tiring, being touched all the time.

But prom goes well, and I manage to ignore the fact that the boy I actu­al­ly like, Sam, is there with someone else. MecK­en­lee. MecK­en­lee with four e’s. She’s pretty enough, but the only unique thing about her is her social secu­ri­ty number. I con­vinced my parents to let me stay over at our rich friend’s house, which was a feat because my parents are Diet Catholic. That basi­cal­ly means they go to church on Christ­mas, cry when O Holy Night plays, and don’t want their teenage daugh­ter having sex. They don’t really need to worry about that, though. I’m kind of scared of sex and, from the way I feel when my prom date keeps putting his hand up my shirt while I’m trying to sleep, I don’t think I’d enjoy it much, either.

It’s two weeks later and summer is upon us. In Texas, that means it’s a hundred degrees all day, every day, for four months. I dress like a woman written by a man. I laugh and I see my friends and they slap my ass in front of their dads, which I always found weird, but their dads laugh so I do, too. One night, I’m drunk and this arro­gant albeit attrac­tive guy starts talking about every­thing that’s hor­ri­bly wrong in this country. It’s not that I dis­agree about any of the prob­lems, it’s just that I think America is like a guy who’s a little too into World War II; there’s clearly some sys­temic issues there, but hon­est­ly, I think in ten years it’ll be okay. But I find it hot that a boy cares about any­thing. Later that night, I kiss him, and dis­cov­er his is a mouth suited only for talking.

The next day I’m at my best friend Bernadette’s house. Bernie’s parents are full-fat Catholic. They have a cal­en­dar with a dif­fer­ent picture of Ronald Reagan for every month. But Bernie’s parents have two redeem­ing qual­i­ties: they go out of town a lot, and they don’t lock up their alcohol. I invite Sam over. I tell him his girl­friend, McDonald’s, can come, too. I know he won’t invite her. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to trail his fingers along my back or try too hard to make me laugh.

Sam comes, because he always does, and he brings his friend, who I don’t know, but who I flirt with to make Sam jealous. It works. Sam is sud­den­ly getting me in on setting up his friend with Bernie, who is def­i­nite­ly not inter­est­ed but goes along because she’s the best friend in the world. They’re inside, having awkward con­ver­sa­tions while ter­ri­ble rap blares in the back­ground, so all I can hear from Sam and I’s posi­tion in the pool is, “So, have you always lived in this house?” inter­rupt­ed by, “What? It’s too loud in here!” Bernadette keeps the music at exactly the same volume all night.

Sam is making me laugh because Sam always makes me laugh. We’re swim­ming and he keeps grab­bing my feet and I keep splash­ing water and trying to get away and all of a sudden I can’t run anymore and my back is against the rough con­crete edge of the pool and he’s in front of me, looking hes­i­tant and nervous and adorable. And I can’t bear it anymore and I’ve had two shots of dis­gust­ing almond vodka and fuck it, I kiss him. And there’s silence. His eyes are still closed. I’m sorry, I say, and try to move away. He holds me in place and asks me why. Because of McDonal—I mean, MecK­en­lee. It’s wrong. And he tells me it’s over with her. Prom was the last hurrah—he felt too guilty to make her go alone. He wanted me, he tells me. He’s sorry he made me wait so long. Sud­den­ly, I am daring and bold and beau­ti­ful. Make it up to me then, I say, and his lips are on mine again, his body is pressed against me under the water and I’m kissing Sam—Sam! And I think maybe sex wouldn’t be so bad after all.

(ABIGAIL removes the ribbons from her hair.)

Three weeks later, it’s the Fourth of July. Sam is taking me to see fire­works. Sam and I have been whiling our summer away togeth­er, lost in kisses and laugh­ter. I am in love. When he picks me up, he’s wearing a bandana and eating a hotdog and waving a tiny Amer­i­can flag in my face. I tell him I refuse to date a repub­li­can, and I tug off the bandana and wrap it behind his neck and kiss him hard. He tastes like mustard. He takes me to a hidden spot with a gap in the trees where he swears we’ll be able to see the fire­works per­fect­ly. He helps me put on bug spray, which I found very roman­tic. We sit down on a big blanket and eat hotdogs and gen­er­al­ly indulge in a little patri­o­tism. We’ve done some okay things, I think, as I bite into the apple pie he bought from the Tom Thumb around the corner. This dessert, Michelle Obama, democ­ra­cy. The fire­works start, and Sam was right—we can see every­thing. I am entranced. I’ve seen fire­works before, but with Sam next to me, and the future ahead of us brighter than the flashes, every color is bewitch­ing, every sound like music, the booms rat­tling through me like the bass of life and hope and all things good. I look at Sam, and he’s looking at me with a ten­der­ness I haven’t seen since I was a child. Sam, my friend, Sam, who makes me laugh, Sam … who I want to love prop­er­ly. Sam, who knows me well enough to know what I’m think­ing. Sam, who is kissing me and placing a beach towel under my head like a pillow while he lays me down. Sam, who is gentle and kind and pushes my hair out of my face to look at me. Sam, who watches me closely as he gets nearer and nearer, looking for a change in my eyes. And sud­den­ly, I feel him every­where, even in my heart­beat, even as his weight pushes the air out of my lungs and leaves me gasping, Sam, Sam, Sam. I am warm all over in the summer night, but I do not blush. I look up at the sky, still smoking from fire­works, and I can see for miles.

(She drags the chair to the other side of the line.)

It’s been two months since that night. Sam turned out to be kind of a dick. We broke up because we’re hun­dreds of miles apart, because for some god­for­sak­en reason, he’s choos­ing to get his edu­ca­tion in the state of Okla­homa. But I like UT. The campus is huge, and I am inten­tion­al­ly dis­tanc­ing myself from anyone I went to high school with. I’m over­tak­en by an urge to consume as much knowl­edge as possible—it’s all laid out before me, in libraries and classes and pro­fes­sors’ brains. I call my mom and she laughs when I tell her I ate another book today. But that’s what it feels like! I can feel them warming me from the inside out, nour­ish­ing my mind as food does my body. And my writing! It’s like a child, needing atten­tion every day, nur­tur­ing and comfort and—

(Pause.)

It’s been two months since the Fourth of July. It’s been eight weeks. I skip Cre­ative Writing and rush to the health clinic. I tell them I need a preg­nan­cy test. The older nurse is kind. The younger nurse, who can’t be more than a few years older than me, asks me if I also need to be tested for STDs. I say no and she asks me if I’m sure. I say yes and she tuts and puts my answer in an iPad. They draw my blood. I pass out. I cry because passing out feels really shitty. I want Sam. The older nurse gives me a juice box. The younger one tells me I can leave, and they’ll call me with my results, but I refuse. Some­thing my dad taught me. Never leave till you get your answer. I wait three hours. Then, the older nurse holds my hand and tells me it’s pos­i­tive. I want my mother. I ask them where I can go to take care of it. The younger nurse snorts and says, New Mexico. The older nurse kicks her out and tells me, unfor­tu­nate­ly, it’s true—unless my life is in danger, there’s nothing anyone in Texas can do. My life is in danger, I tell her. My whole life. I got a 1360 on my SATs. I don’t know why that’s the first thing that comes into my head, but it is, and I say it three times. She closes the door. She gives me a number to call and tells me to keep it quiet that I got it from her. She gives me a hug and a lol­lipop. I walk to my dorm that I share with two other girls. I turn on the shower and call the number. The woman on the phone tells me she can help me—if I can get to New Mexico. Texas is a big state. I don’t have a car. But Bernie does. And she goes to A&M. Go Aggies. I call Bernie, my best friend, who is going to save me. And Bernie listens and says she’s sorry and that she loves me. And then she says no matter how much she loves me, she won’t let me turn her into an acces­so­ry for murder. I try to reason with my best friend, I tell her I need her, I don’t have any other way, I can’t pay for a plane ticket. I tell her we’ve talked about this before and she’s never con­sid­ered it murder. And she says she guesses it’s never been pre­sent­ed to her like this before. She says she asked the Lord for a sign and she thinks this is it; a test to prove whether or not she’s a true Catholic. I say maybe it’s a test of whether or not you’ll be a true friend. True friends guide each other into the Lord’s light, she says. Were you in the Lord’s light when you fucked Sam’s friend in the back­seat of his car, Bernie? How about when you found out he had a girl­friend and kept fucking him anyway? She replies she’s a com­plete­ly dif­fer­ent person than the one she was three weeks ago. I tell her if she doesn’t do this for me, I will never speak to her again. And she tells me that she will pray for me and the inno­cent soul I’m trying to murder and hangs up the phone. I’ve known Bernie since I was thir­teen years old. She is my best friend. And she thinks I’m a mur­der­er. I stay up all night research­ing buses, planes, even Craigslist ads, trying to find some way to get the hell out of Texas. But I just spent all of my money on books and dorm dec­o­ra­tions. I have a job on campus, but I don’t get paid for two weeks. I’m walking up a stair­way to nowhere. I decide I have to tell my parents. I know they dis­agree, but they love me. They want me to have a future, and all I need is money for a plane ticket and a hotel room. I’ll pay them back. I call and my mother picks up the phone. I almost cry at the sound of her voice. I miss you so much, I tell her. I miss you, too, she says. But I am so dis­ap­point­ed in you. She got a call from Bernie’s parents letting her know what her daugh­ter has been up to. Do you have any idea how humil­i­at­ing that was? She asks me. I can’t breathe. I say I’m sorry. I beg for my mother, who has always made every­thing right, to help me. She tells me she needs time, but I have no time. She tells me I’ve broken my father’s heart. I got a 1360 on my SATs, I’m a student at a good school, I drove my little sib­lings every­where and helped them with their homework—I’ve broken my father’s heart. For the first time, my mother doesn’t fix it. She hangs up the phone, and she doesn’t tell me she loves me. Step, step, step, up, up, up. Des­per­ate, I call my last hope, the boy that told me he felt closer to me without a condom, the person I con­sid­ered my friend before my lover and trusted with a child’s heart. He doesn’t pick up. I call again and he says, hello? as if he can’t imagine what busi­ness I would have with him. I hear laugh­ter in the back­ground. Sam, I’m preg­nant, I tell him. I hear the people in the back­ground say his name as he walks away. I need help. I need you to drive me to New Mexico. There’s a clinic there and they’ll take care of it, but I have to— Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m cut off. You want me to drive you to New Mexico? I have classes. Yeah, Sam, so do I, but I also have your child growing inside me and unless you want to spend the next eigh­teen years giving up a quarter of your income, I suggest you get your ass to Texas. It’s been two months, he says. How did you not notice till now? How do I even know it’s mine? I tell him he’s the only one I’ve been with. I tell him he should know me well enough to know I wouldn’t lie. I tell him he’s my friend and I need him. And he says he’s sorry, he can send me some money that isn’t even close to enough, but he can’t leave. I have classes, he says. And I mean, I have a girl­friend. Sam, I’m begging you. I have nowhere else to go. You know I’m not lying. Please, please, please—! And he hangs up the phone.

(During the next lines, she circles the chair. She lets down her hair.)

I realize now that it was a priv­i­lege to have my heart broken by my country at eigh­teen years old, and not the moment I was born. It was a priv­i­lege to grow up as a girl who loved, and was loved, by the place she lived. But it is sorrow, all the same, to watch it recoil from me as I become some­thing it aims not to love, not to protect, but to regulate.

(She steps on top of the chair. The past and present start to blur.)

I remem­ber the ending now. I reached the top of the stair­way to nowhere and the steps van­ished beneath me. All around me was the life I didn’t know—a life of pain and ruin, shame and anger. I didn’t want to be a husk of a person by age thirty-five. Now, by age thirty-five, I’ll have a child almost as old as I am now. I thought of my child­hood, and I real­ized that it had ended. I grew up running around on hard­wood floors and sneak­ing candy into the shop­ping cart when my mother wasn’t looking. I grew up nestled in my parents’ arms and loved so thor­ough­ly I never doubted it. I grew up knowing I was safe and wanted and trea­sured. I cannot give that to this child. This child will grow up unwant­ed because I do not want it. This child will grow up regret­ted, because I regret the choices that landed me here. This child will grow up knowing not all women are meant to be mothers. Or I will let labor split my body, my baby’s face shatter my heart, and I will abandon them to a life of pain and con­fu­sion. I will let my blood walk alone. Or I will find a way to make sure that life never exists … and every­one I love will think me a mur­der­er. No, worse than a mur­der­er; a whore. I’ve broken my father’s heart. My mother didn’t tell me she loved me when she hung up the phone. My parents have stopped seeing me as their daugh­ter and have begun to see me as a woman. Daugh­ters are to be loved and pro­tect­ed. Women are to be restrained and feared. Why are sons allowed to stay exactly as they are, to be loved for all their changes, to be admired for their inde­pen­dence? Why is it that to become a woman, I must cease to be a girl, and cast off all its pro­tec­tions? I watched the daughter’s life I loved slip away step by step. There was no choice that did not break my heart. There was no way to keep myself. There was no love that did not shift as I met my inevitable fate, my curse and gift: wom­an­hood. Though I could not see the drop, I knew it to be better than the plain. So, I chose to fall. I chose. This is what I have the right to choose. And as I fell, I remem­bered the song my mother would sing to me, while the fire­works exalted, on the Fourth of July.

(She sings.)

Mine eyes have seen the coming of the glory of the Lord;

He is tram­pling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed a fateful light­ning of His ter­ri­ble swift sword;

His truth is march­ing on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!

I have read His fiery gospel writ in rows of bur­nished steel!

“As ye deal with my con­dem­n­ers, so with you My grace shall deal!

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,”

Since God is march­ing on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!

His truth is march­ing on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,

With a glory in His bosom that trans­fig­ures you and me;

As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free!

While God is march­ing on.

(She steps off the chair. Blackout.)

END OF PLAY