After a chatty nurse named Emily evaluated her with all sorts of gadgets, Quinn waited for ages in a freezing exam room, wrapped in a paper robe that was big enough to cover her three times over but still somehow left her uncomfortably exposed. She was taking selfies, pretending to lick the intestines from a model of the digestive system, when the doctor finally knocked and then bustled in with apologies about the wait. Quinn sat on the edge of the exam table.
"I see the first thing I've done as your doctor is give you hypothermia," Dr. Kumar said. "Sorry about that." She fiddled with an electronic panel on the wall. "So, school starts on Tuesday? And you go to New Prospect?"
Quinn nodded. "I'll be a junior."
"I have a daughter there, but she's only going into second grade." The doctor sat next to a small desk and read over the forms Quinn had filled out in the waiting room, occasionally asking questions.
"Your environmental and chemical sensitivities—when did they start?"
"They were really bad when I was a baby," Quinn said. She always made sure to mention that so people would know she wasn't just neurotic, being allergic to ten million things. "We lived in Cincinnati, and I had a lot of trouble breathing in the city, so we moved to Maine and stayed there till I was seven."
"Maine? That's a pretty extreme solution."
Quinn shrugged. "My dad inherited a house there. By the time we moved to Brooklyn, I was much better. I try to avoid stuff that sets me off."
Dr. Kumar typed a note into the computer before checking the form again.
"And this unusual fatigue you wrote about, how long have you been noticing it?"
"I don't know. A few months? Over the summer, definitely. It's not a big deal. My mom wanted me to mention it."
"Your temperature is slightly elevated, so you might be fighting some sort of infection. But that wouldn't have lasted months. What were you doing this summer?"
"Working at a frozen yogurt store. I also volunteered at an environmental action committee and helped out with my dad's campaign. And I play ultimate and run and swim and stuff. I like being outside."
"Busy summer. When was your last period?"
"Um ... I don't know. I only got it about a year ago, and it's never been regular. I guess the last time was ... April? Or May?" Her mother's friend who was an OB/GYN said she shouldn't worry yet, since she was still settling into her cycle. And, recently, she'd had a feeling it was coming soon—her low gut had that constant sense of fullness.
Dr. Kumar typed a final note. "I'm going to ask you to lie down now, please."
Quinn scootched farther onto the exam table and then lay all the way back. Dr. Kumar started pressing on her belly; it made her need to pee. When the doctor was done with Quinn's gut, she asked if she examined her breasts regularly and told her she was going to do so. Quinn was holding her gaze on the crackled white iceberg of a ceiling and reminding herself that Dr. Kumar was a woman and did this all the time, when the doctor pressed the side of one breast too hard.
"Ow."
"Sorry. Sensitive there?"
"I guess."
"Noticed sensitivity in your breasts before?"
"No," she said. Although ... She had recently started using a better sports bra; running in her previous, sort of flimsy one had gotten uncomfortable. "Well, maybe a bit."
Dr. Kumar finished up the poking and prodding and then told Quinn that she'd leave her alone for a moment so she could get dressed. Quinn put on her clothes and sat back on the table. She found a squishy salted caramel in the pocket of her cut-offs, its crinkly cellophane wrapper bringing a hazy memory of the stale lollipops she used to get at some doctor's office when she was little. A knock came at the door. She put the caramel back in her pocket.
Dr. Kumar pulled her stool across from Quinn and sat down.
"You said on your form that you're not sexually active. Is that correct, Quinn?"
"No. I mean, yes, it's correct. No, I'm not active."
"Many girls your age don't feel comfortable discussing it. Especially with a virtual stranger. And I completely understand that. But we need honesty between us. Okay?"
"Sure. I've never had sex, though." Quinn wished her feet were on the ground, not hanging in the air like a little kid's, flip-flops dangling.
"Okay. But in the past several months, have you been involved, sexually, with a male? Boyfriend or otherwise?"
"Well ... what do you mean, sexually?" Did she really have to tell this random woman the explicit details of her romantic life?
Dr. Kumar folded her hands together in that "now we really have to talk" way.
"Quinn," she said, "I'd like to do a urine test for pregnancy. Your symptoms and my exam certainly indicate this as a possibility. Missed periods, fatigue, tender breasts. A slightly elevated temperature can also be indicative."
Pregnant? Hello?
Quinn tried not to act like Dr. Kumar was completely crazy and kept her voice neutral when she said, "In the past few months, I've only hooked up with my boyfriend, and we haven't done anything that could get me pregnant." She wasn't sure whether her face heated when she said this from just talking about it or from that "only with my boyfriend" part, which wasn't exactly true. "I'm not stupid," she added. "I know how pregnancy happens."
"Just humor me," Dr. Kumar said. "The urine test only takes a minute. All that will be wasted are the test materials."
By the time Quinn had peed in the cup and waited in the exam room again, she'd gone through a swing of emotions. First, an unexpected flash of worry. Had there been a moment with Jesse that might have been unsafe? Not actual sex, but something else? She thought back over the summer, as if she might have forgotten something, even though she knew perfectly well how far they'd gone: her shirt and bra off, some touching below the belt, but always with boxers and underwear still on.
The whole thing—becoming a couple after being best friends since fifth grade—had happened suddenly. Well, suddenly and not suddenly. For years, Quinn had harbored a painfully intense secret crush on him. The closer their friendship became, the more scared she was of risking it by confessing her feelings. (She had no idea if he liked her liked her. He'd never made a move, obviously, and fooled around with other girls now and then.) One afternoon this past April, they were in the park with his dog, Hugo, tossing a Frisbee. The air was soft and warm and heady with the perfume of flowering trees. Every time Jesse went up high for the disc, Quinn couldn't believe how long he hung in the air, like he was flying. At some point, he started wrestling Hugo, then he grabbed Quinn's leg and pulled her down, too, and in the play struggle that followed, she ended up on top of him, his wrists in her hands, pinned above his head. She was breathing heavily and Jesse's face was flushed, and all of a sudden she couldn't take another minute of it. Not another second! Agony outweighed fear a thousand times over.
"Jesse?" she said.
"Quinn?" he responded.
Her heart pounded, fear still there even though it was outclassed. "What would you do if I kissed you right now?"
He blinked, unreadable. "Depends where. Elbow? Big toe?"
Her ribs were going to break from the pounding. "Lips."
"Hmm ..." He pretended to be considering it. "I don't think I'm self-aware enough to predict. I think you'd have to just do it and see." His tone was jokey, but as Quinn held his gaze, something shifted, and the look in his thick-lashed, hazel eyes told her what she needed to know: This moment was as big and as long-time-coming for him as it was for her. He wanted it as much as she did. This was happening. Finally.
She leaned down and kissed him. Every spring bud in Brooklyn bloomed.
Just like that, they were together.
Because they were already so close, it immediately felt like a "serious relationship." And if Quinn had listened to what her body wanted—if she'd given in to the ache for his touch—she'd have slept with him the day of that first kiss. Her brain, though, had told her to move slowly. To Jesse, she just said, "We have forever, right? Why rush?" But talking to Sadie in early May, loosened up by a couple of beers at a party, she found herself saying: "I'm scared of how much I love him, I think. I'm scared he's going to realize something's wrong with me and decide he doesn't want me, and if we've already had sex ... I'll be even more devastated."
"What do you mean, he'll realize something's wrong with you?" Sadie asked.
Quinn hadn't thought before describing it that way; that's just how it came out. At Sadie's question, she regretted saying it, like she'd revealed something too personal, even though she didn't quite know what she had meant herself.
She tried to blow it off, but Sadie pushed. "You must have meant something," she said. "Stop being so mysterious all the time." (Sadie had been hurt that Quinn hadn't confided in her about her crush on Jesse. Apparently, Quinn had breached an unwritten friendship law: being "private" was okay; "secretive" was not.)
"Just general insecurity," Quinn hedged, honestly not knowing how to explain. "It's scary to be with the person you want to be with for the rest of your life; there's so much at stake. I want to be careful. That's all."
If you were so worried about what was at stake, why did you kiss Marco Cavanaugh? Quinn wondered now, still unable to shake the memory of that moment on Southaven. No, she was not a "good girl."
And no, she and Jesse hadn't done anything unsafe.
After Quinn dismissed that possibility, she started to get pissed at Dr. Kumar. Really pissed. Would she have acted like this with an older patient? Wasted the patient's time like this? No. It was because Quinn was a teenager that the doctor didn't trust her. Like how the woman who owned the neighborhood store that sold cool bags and doodads and jewelry always stink-eyed Quinn and her friends, as if they'd stolen something.
Quinn was fuming about this and trying to dislodge a chunk of that salted caramel, which had gotten wedged between two of her upper molars, when Dr. Kumar knocked and opened the exam room door. She quickly took her finger out of her mouth.
"Are we almost done?" she asked. "This is taking a really long time."
The doctor sat down, her expression concerned. "I'm afraid the test was positive, Quinn."
"Positive?" Quinn said, confused.
"For pregnancy."
"Right, but why would the test be positive if I can't be pregnant?" Quinn didn't try to hide her exasperation.
"These tests are very accurate. When women test at home, there are things that can cause inaccuracies. Here, that just doesn't happen."
"But, like I already said, I've never had sex, or had a guy ... ejaculate near enough. Are you even listening to me?"
Dr. Kumar's sharp eyes remained fixed on Quinn's, so fatally serious that Quinn found herself having to suppress a sudden wave of laughter.
"I swear," she said, keeping it down. "It would have to be an immaculate conception."
"Well," Dr. Kumar said, "if it would make you feel better, we can do a blood test to confirm it. But I want to emphasize that given this first test, my exam, and the symptoms you've been experiencing, I'm very confident that you're pregnant."
"You can do a blood test, though?"
"Yes. I was going to have lab work done, anyway."
"You'll check my thyroid?" Quinn said, spoon-feeding her.
"We'll do a whole workup." Dr. Kumar stood and made some quick notes in the computer, then laid a hand on Quinn's shoulder and gave a small squeeze. "Just wait here. I'll have Emily come take blood. And I'll call you as soon as possible—by the end of the day—to discuss the lab results." A look of pity flitted across her eyes. "We'll discuss the next steps then, too. Okay? I'm here to help."
"Sure," Quinn said. "Whatever."
As she spoke, the chunk of caramel slipped free, giving her a choking feeling as it slid down her throat.
