The Other F-Word

by Natasha Friend

  Sophomore Science Palooza. It was a stupid name, but Mr. Bonducci, their third-period Life Science teacher, presented the guidelines with his usual gravity.

  This was an eight-week assignment.

  Students should choose a topic worthy of intensive study.

  They could work alone or with a partner.

  The project would count for 65 percent of their second-semester grade.

  “I am giving you,” Mr. Bonducci said, weaving his way through the classroom, dropping packets onto lab tables, “a list of suggested research topics … a list of websites … a list of scientific journals … and the grading rubric that I will be using to assess your work … You will be using today’s class period to decide upon an area of study. By the end of the week you should have a working hypothesis…”

  “You won’t be needing this,” JJ said, sliding the packet out from under Milo’s hand before he could pick it up.

  “Why not?”

  “I already know what we’re doing.”

  “What we’re doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “We.”

  JJ Rabinowitz, laziest lab partner ever, barely scraping by with a C-minus, grinned. “You and me, babe.”

  “No.”

  “Are you ready for this?”

  “No.”

  “Because this is a kick-ass idea.”

  “Let me guess,” Milo said. “You want to research the effects of daily marijuana use on the teenage brain.”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m sorry. You want to research the effects of hourly marijuana use on the teenage brain.”

  “Nope. I want to research your family.”

  “What?”

  “A genetics project. You, Hollis, alleles, genotypes, phenotypes, dominant traits, recessive traits, all of it.”

  Milo stared at JJ.

  “Say you had a picture of your donor—”

  “I don’t.”

  “Okay, but say you did. And say you had pictures of all your donor’s kids. And you had pictures of all of their family members. If someone—Joe Shmoe off the street, who didn’t know any of them—if Joe Shmoe tried to sort out who was related to who just by looking at physical traits … would he be able to guess which people were a genetic match? I hypothesize that he would.”

  Milo opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Why are you getting a C-minus in Life Science?”

  “Because I don’t apply myself. Because I don’t work to my potential.”

  “But … you actually know what you’re talking about. Where did you learn all that?”

  JJ shrugged. “I’ve done a little reading.”

  “Because of me?”

  “No, man. Because of me.”

  Milo felt like a jackass. This whole time, it hadn’t even occurred to him how JJ might be feeling. Besides sharing the fact that he was adopted, JJ didn’t talk about it. He’d never mentioned birth parents or long-lost siblings or anything, and Milo had never thought to ask.

  “Do you…” Milo hesitated. “I mean, do your parents … are they open to…”

  “We don’t talk about it.”

  Milo nodded.

  “It’s not the same, anyway. Giving away a kid and giving away sperm. They’re just … not the same.”

  Milo waited for JJ to say more, but nothing came. What came was tinkling laugher from across the room.

  Milo didn’t need to look to see who was laughing. He knew that laugh. Just like he knew where Hayley Christenson was sitting (left corner, by the window) and what she was wearing (blue sweater, cowboy boots). Today her hair was braided on the side. Today she was chewing gum. Today she had tiny silver hoops in her ears. Milo didn’t need to look to see who was laughing, but he looked anyway. Which was a mistake.

  “She’s cute, huh?” JJ said.

  “Who?”

  “That girl Hayley.”

  Milo shrugged. “If you like the type.”

  “Your eyes are bugging out of your head.”

  “She’s being loud.” Milo looked down at the packet. “Should I start filling out this sheet?”

  “What you should do is talk to her.”

  “She doesn’t know I exist.”

  “That can be remedied.” JJ raised his hand like he was hailing a cab. “Yo, Hayley!”

  “What are you doing?” Milo said, panic setting in.

  “I’m helping a brother out.”

  “You’re not my brother. I don’t need a brother. Seriously. Don’t think you’re doing me a favor by—”

  But she was already standing up. She was weaving her way through the maze of lab tables. She was standing right there in front of him. Blue sweater. Side braid. Lip gloss shimmering in the light. Milo’s first instinct was to reach out and touch her, just to see what she felt like, but that would make him a weirdo. His next instinct was to dive under the table and never come out, but that would make him a freak.

  “Hayley,” JJ said, “you know Milo.”

  “Sure,” Hayley said. “Hey, Milo.”

  “Hey, Hayley.”

  Milo’s voice cracked. He heard it, and JJ heard it, and Hayley heard it, and no one would mention it, but there it was.

  “So,” JJ said, “have you come up with a project yet?”

  Hayley nodded. “Yeah. Aromatherapy.”

  “Aromatherapy?”

  “It’s a hobby of mine. Did you know that different scents can affect your mood and productivity?”

  “I did not know that. Milo, did you know that?”

  Milo shook his head.

  “It’s true,” Hayley said. “Smell is our strongest sense. Lemon, lavender, rosemary, cinnamon … inhaling those essential oils can literally change how we feel. They can activate our immune systems and lower our blood pressure.”

  “Wow,” JJ said. “That’s cool. Isn’t that cool, Milo?”

  Milo nodded.

  “Speaking of cool,” JJ said, “my lab partner here has come up with this kick-ass project, and we wanted to see if you would be willing to participate.”

  Milo stared at JJ.

  “Me?” Hayley said.

  “We need someone who doesn’t know Milo very well, and I will tell you why. You see, Milo has a unique family situation…” JJ turned to Milo. “Permission to divulge?”

  Milo nodded again. He didn’t trust his voice.

  “Did you know he has two moms?”

  Hayley shrugged. “Half the kids in Brooklyn have two moms.”

  “Right. So you know what a sperm donor is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you heard of the Donor Progeny Project?”

  Hayley shook her head.

  “Okay,” JJ said. “We’ll start at the beginning.” He leaned back in his chair, folded both hands behind his head, and kicked his feet up on the table.

  “Mr. Rabinowitz,” Mr. Bonducci called from across the room.

  “Yeah, Mr. B?”

  “Feet on the floor, please.”

  “You got it, Mr. B.”

  JJ lowered his feet and leaned in. When he finished talking, Hayley turned to Milo, her eyes wide.

  “You found four of your brothers and sisters?”

  “Half brothers and sisters. Yeah.”

  “And now you’re going to find your dad?”

  Milo looked at Hayley. Her eyes were even bluer than her sweater. “My genetic father. Yeah.”

  “You’re going to track down the man who gave you life so you can get a picture of him for this project?”

  Track down the man who gave you life. It sounded so Sherlock Holmes. Until that moment, all Milo had really thought about doing was emailing the cryolab to ask for his donor’s contact info, which wasn’t exactly hardcore detective work. But here he was nodding. Here he was saying, “Yeah.”

  “Oh my God.” Hayley blinked. And for reasons that completely eluded Milo, she leaned over and hugged him. “That’s the most amazing thing I ever heard.”

  In the second before s
he pulled away, he caught a whiff of her—flowery shampoo, Juicy Fruit, dryer sheets—that made his head spin. Not that he was trying to smell her or anything.

  “I will totally help you,” Hayley said. Meaning that she would look at a bunch of pictures that Milo A) didn’t have, and B) had no idea how to get—and she would guess which of the people in these hypothetical photographs were genetically linked.

  “Thanks,” Milo said.

  “Let me know when you need me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Cool,” Hayley said, smiling. And suddenly she was gone, weaving her way through the maze of lab tables, back to her spot by the window.

  Milo sat there, stunned. Hayley Christenson just hugged him. Hayley Christenson just hugged him and he was going to find his father. He was going to track down the man who gave him life in the name of science. He’d given Hayley his word.

  “Why did you—” Milo murmured. “How did you—”

  “You’re welcome,” JJ said.

  * * *

  From: MiloRobClark@brooklynIDS.org

  To: info@twincitiescryolab.org

  Date: Thursday, January 7, at 7:37 PM

  Subject: Donor #9677

  To whom it may concern,

  My name is Milo Robinson-Clark. Sixteen years ago I was conceived by artificial insemination using donor sperm from the Twin Cities Cryolab. I have seen my donor’s profile and I know that he was #9677. I also know that he registered himself as willing to be known. I’m not sure if that still applies, but if you have his current contact information I hope that you will share this email with him.

  I am interested in making contact with my donor mainly for medical reasons. Certain conditions, like allergies, can be genetically linked. I have only limited information about my donor’s medical history, and I would like to know more. I would also like to know what traits and interests we might have in common.

  I’m not sure exactly how this process works, and my goal is not to violate my donor’s privacy, but if he is still willing to be known, I would like to start by writing him a letter.

  Thank you for your time and consideration.

  Sincerely,

  Milo Robinson-Clark

  * * *

  After he clicked Send, Milo didn’t know what to do with himself. Probably he should tell someone. But imagining the look on Frankie’s face, and the I-told-you-I-don’t-want-to-know-shit-about-him rant from Hollis, didn’t make Milo want to share anything with them. Not yet. He didn’t want to tell Suzanne without telling Frankie. And he didn’t want to get Abby’s or Noah’s hopes up, either. Not until he actually had something to get their hopes up about. For all Milo knew, their donor could have died in a rock climbing expedition. Or run off to join the circus. The Twin Cities Cryolab might not have his current contact information. And, even if they did, he might not want to be found anymore.

  Yes. Milo was doing the right thing keeping this to himself. But he had to tell someone. Sending that email had unleashed something inside him, and now he was a bundle of nerves, pacing the room, pulsing with adrenaline.

  “How am I supposed to do homework now, Pete? Huh?”

  Pete looked up from Milo’s bed and yawned.

  “Oh, am I boring you?”

  Milo grabbed his cell off the bedside table.

  “Joe’s Pizza.” JJ answered on the first ring.

  “I did it,” Milo said.

  “Did what?”

  “Emailed the cryolab.”

  Silence. And then, “Good for you, man.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get anything back?”

  “I just sent it. I may not hear back until next week.” Milo heard a sharp inhale, followed by a long, drawn-out exhale. “Are you smoking weed?”

  “For medicinal purposes only.”

  “Cancer? Glaucoma?”

  “My parents are home,” JJ said.

  “Ah.”

  “They’re up my ass about school.”

  “That must be very uncomfortable. Will you need surgery?”

  JJ ignored the joke. “They’re threatening to get me a tutor. A live-in tutor for when they go away again.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Three weeks. Either that, or I have to go with them and get tutored on location.”

  “Budapest?”

  “Glasgow, Scotland. I can get tutored here, or I can get tutored in Glasgow, Scotland. It’s my choice.”

  “What do you want?”

  Another sharp inhale. “I just want them to stay home, man.” Exhale. “I want them to stay home and be actual parents.”

  Milo hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to say. He’d met JJ’s parents briefly, a month or so ago, and they seemed nice. JJ’s mom was about as wide as a ruler and wore a lot of scarves and jangly bracelets. JJ’s dad spent the whole time talking on his phone to some movie producer in LA, but he stopped long enough to shake Milo’s hand. He had a strong grip for someone so short.

  “But enough about me,” JJ said.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “You didn’t call to listen to my angst. You called to tell me about your email.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I will now consult the Magic 8 Ball.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, Magic 8 Ball,” JJ intoned with mock gravity, “will Milo’s sperm donor respond to his email?”

  “I didn’t actually email my donor,” Milo said. “I emailed the cryolab—”

  “Silence! The Magic 8 Ball is pondering … wait for it … wait for it…”

  Milo waited.

  “It is decidedly so.”

  “Oh really,” Milo said.

  “The Magic 8 Ball does not lie.”

  Even though JJ was full of it, and Milo didn’t believe in Magic 8 Balls any more than he believed in fairies or tarot cards, when he hung up a minute later, he felt strangely calm.

  HOLLIS

  Instead of eating pizza dunkers in the cafeteria with Shay and Gianna, Hollis was making out with Gunnar Mott in the back of the auditorium. They were sharing a seat, Hollis on Gunnar’s lap. Gunnar’s face, half-lit by the glow of the exit sign, was green. Hollis was kissing the Incredible Hulk.

  She wondered briefly what Shay and Gianna would think if they saw her right now. She’d told them she was skipping lunch to study for the geometry quiz. That they understood. Shay and Gianna were serious students, a bit on the nerdy side. The only boys they ever talked about were book characters. Draco Malfoy. Percy Jackson. As far as Hollis knew, neither Shay nor Gianna had been kissed in real life, let alone done the things that she had done with Gunnar Mott.

  Hollis should probably be nervous, afraid of getting caught, but, in truth, that was part of the thrill. She and Gunnar were supposed to be at lunch. They could get busted at any moment. Busted and hauled into the principal’s office, where their hands would be slapped (figuratively) and their parents would be called (literally). What would Hollis’s mother say? Hollis had no idea. They’d had the Sex Talk, as in, “Most babies are not conceived in a petri dish.” And they’d had the Love Talk, as in, “All hearts are created equal.” Whether Hollis identified herself as straight or gay or bisexual or transgender, her mother would love her all the same. They’d had that conversation. But they’d never really talked about this: spending your lunch period hooking up in the back of the auditorium with someone you didn’t love, just for the hell of it.

  Gunnar’s lips, Gunnar’s hands, Gunnar’s smooth, bare chest. Considering they never actually removed any clothing, he and Hollis generated an unholy amount of heat. In the event of a power outage, they could run the school.

  Hollis’s phone pinged, but she ignored it. Milo, Abby, and Noah could wait. Over the weekend, the group emails had amped up. They’d started sending each other selfies, which was pretty crazy because now they could actually see that they were related. Noah looked even more like Milo than Hollis did. A taller, thicker, shorter-haired version of Milo in preppier clothes. When Abby p
ointed this out—that Noah appeared to have come straight out of an L.L.Bean catalog—he swore it wasn’t his fault. My mom picks all my clothes, he wrote. To which Abby replied, Time for an intervention. Abby was funny. And prettier than Hollis had imagined she would be. Unlike the rest of them, her hair was straight and shiny, which surprised Hollis until Abby explained that she spent half an hour every morning blowing out her curls. This surprised Hollis even more. In her emails, Abby didn’t present herself as a blowout girl. Or a gold-cross-on-a-chain girl. Or a mascara-and-lip-gloss girl. But, according to her selfie, she was all of these things. If Hollis had seen Abby walking down the hall at school, she might have written her off as a Malory Keener wannabe. But Abby was saved by her caustic wit. Not to mention her double-jointed elbows, garden gnome collection, and self-proclaimed nose fetish. I’m attracted to guys with really big noses, she wrote in one of her emails. Like Owen Wilson and Adrien Brody.

  Noah was harder to read. He played the trombone. He was in the chess club and the French club and the robotics club. His twin brother, Josh—the one who wanted nothing to do with them—was the jock. While the only sport Noah had mastered was Ping-Pong, Josh was some kind of basketball prodigy and this was the big thing that bonded him with their dad, who apparently had played point guard, first in college, and then on some professional European team for nearly a decade, which was Josh’s big dream, too. Noah was the odd man out. Besides living in the same house, he wrote in one of his emails, my dad and I have nothing in common.

  All of this was fine with Hollis. She liked getting to know her half siblings. It was the questions about their donor she could do without. What was his medical history? Was he married? Did he play any sports? Did he play any instruments? Was he a Democrat? What did he like to read? Had he ever been arrested? Had he ever had his heart broken? Milo and Abby and Noah were full of hypothetical questions that Hollis never wanted to hear the answers to. She didn’t want to know squat. She didn’t even want to think about it. All she wanted to do was sit here in the dark, on Gunnar Mott’s lap, kissing and kissing until the bell rang.

  Which it inevitably did. And they had to come up for air.

  They stood. Gunnar tucked in his shirt and said, “See ya.” Hollis straightened her skullcap and said, “Later.” Gunnar snuck out the side door. Hollis snuck out the back. Well, she didn’t sneak out so much as run into Malory Keener and her size-zero wrecking crew, who were all huddled together outside the door.