The Whizz Quiz



THREE weeks later, Raji stood in the bathroom of her apartment, holding a pregnancy test.

The two little blue lines on the device glared at her, accusing her of not getting to the pharmacy quite fast enough or swallowing the Plan B pills quite firmly enough.

She dropped the pregnancy test in the stainless steel trash can, where it rattled on top of the other two positive pregnancy tests.

This was insane. This was impossible.

The white tile of the bathroom blurred in the bright lights above the sinks.

She held onto the steel bathroom counter so she wouldn’t fall and told her phone, “Call Peyton.”

The phone made a fucked-up rattling sound.

Peyton’s voice asked, “Hello, Raji? Are you there?”

Raji sucked in a deep breath. “You’re still coming to the masquerade ball for the hospital next week, aren’t you?”

Peyton’s voice was throaty with sleep. “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

Raji kicked the trash can. “Oh, no reason. I’ll be glad to see you.”

“Me, too. I miss you when I’m touring.”

She wrapped her arms around her treasonous body, willing it to get with the damn program. “I miss you, too.”