“What’s the idea?”
Abby pinched the bridge of her nose. She was worried that if she told Lizzie what she’d decided, if she spoke it out loud, it would sound impractical or impossible; like something Abby could never hope to accomplish… or like something that someone else was already doing. Abby wasn’t sure which one of those things would be worse.
“I was talking to Sebastian and his friend about cycling, and why I loved it so much. I talked about being a kid, and how my bike gave me some independence. How I could get myself between my parents’ houses, and go to the mall or the bookstore, and it let me feel more…” Abby tried to find a word that wouldn’t make Lizzie roll her eyes, or snort, or both. Stable? Centered? Calm?
“Happy,” she finally said. “And I told you about what happened with Morgan. So my idea was starting a cycling club for girls. I could take them on rides and teach them about bike maintenance and repairs and safety. And maybe we’d build up to a weeklong bike trip in the summer.” She paused, then added, “In a blue state. With a possible side trip to Planned Parenthood.”
Abby braced for skepticism, but Lizzie just looked thoughtful. “You know, it sounds a little bit like Girls on the Run. Except for the Planned Parenthood part.”
“Obviously,” Abby said.
“My niece did that in elementary school. There’s running, but they also talk about body image and peer pressure and self-esteem. Stuff like that.”
“Yes!” Abby said. “Exactly!” She pulled her knees up to her chest. “Except I’m not qualified to do any of that, except the biking. I can lead rides. But I thought maybe—I mean, I’ve got friends who are teachers, or therapists. I could find people—professionals, people with training—who work with girls. And I know it sounds ridiculous, about Planned Parenthood, but maybe there’d be some way to, you know, quietly spread the word, so that girls who needed to go there…” Abby closed her eyes. “It’s stupid.”
“No,” said Lizzie. “It’s not stupid at all. It’s actually sadly necessary. And kind of great.” Lizzie set Grover on the floor and got to her feet. She held her arms out, and Abby stood, and let her friend hug her. “My little girl is all grown up,” Lizzie said, and started humming “Sunrise, Sunset” as Abby giggled.
“Will you help me?” she asked.
Lizzie nodded. “You should talk to Neighborhood Bike Works.” Abby knew the group taught kids in low-income neighborhoods how to build bikes from donated parts and let them keep the bikes they’d built. She raked her hands through her hair, still thinking. “And as for the other part, the detour to Planned Parenthood part… if women in the 1950s and 1960s figured out how to spread the word about who to call and where to go, I don’t think your idea is crazy at all.”
“So you think it could work?”
“You’ll never know unless you try.”
And I’m going to hate myself if I don’t, Abby realized. She thought about Morgan, about how scared Morgan must have been, how alone she must have felt, even in the group, and the courage it must have taken her to tell Andy her secret. The Breakaway women had helped Morgan when Morgan needed help, and Lizzie had saved Abby, when Abby had been a girl in need of saving. There were other Morgans and other Abbys out there; a world full of girls and young women who needed friendship or support or skills or reliable contraception, and not enough people who’d risk their own comfort to help them. Someone had to take the risk. Why not Abby? Being a single lady could work to her advantage. If she ended up in jail, she wouldn’t be leaving a husband and children behind.
“You look like you’ve come to a conclusion,” Lizzie had said.
“I think I have,” Abby said. “I still have to talk to Eileen.”
“Into the lion’s den!” Lizzie cheered. “Do you have a will?”
“No,” Abby said. “If she kills me, you can have everything. Just get rid of anything embarrassing before Eileen goes to clean out my apartment.”
“Done and done,” Lizzie said, and gave her a hug, for good luck.
* * *
Abby spent Rosh Hashanah with her father, listening to him chant the prayers and deliver a sermon on tolerance and loving one’s neighbor in a practical, not merely theoretical, way.
The morning of Yom Kippur Abby went to Eileen’s synagogue. “You look wonderful,” Eileen said when Abby met her outside the sanctuary. Other congregants were streaming into the building. Some wore white, to resemble the angels, with canvas sneakers on their feet, obeying the edict about not wearing leather or animal products on the holiest day of the year. Eileen wore a chic black suit and red-soled black stilettos. She held Abby’s shoulders lightly and looked her up and down. Abby had always hated when her mother inspected her. It was like being appraised by a scale with a face, a machine-human hybrid that could tell her down to the ounce what she weighed, and whether it was more or less than what she’d weighed the last time she’d come home. Eileen had pursed her lips. “You look…”