Jodie Picoult - My Sister's Keeper

She pulls out the paper inside and reads it, then turns to me. "What did you say to him?" she demands. "To who?"

My father picks up the notice. It is full of legal language, which might as well be Greek. "What's this?"

"A motion for a temporary restraining order." She grabs it from my father. "Do you realize you're asking to have me kicked out of the house, and to have no contact with you? Is that really what you want?" Kick her out? I can't breathe. "I never asked for that."

"Well, an attorney wouldn't have filed it on his own behalf, Anna." Do you know how sometimes—when you are riding your bike and you start skidding across sand, or when you miss a step and start tumbling down the stairs—you have those long, long seconds to know that you are going to be hurt, and badly? "I don't know what's going on," I say.

"Then how can you think you're qualified to make decisions for yourself?" My mother stands so abruptly her chair clatters to the cafeteria floor. "If this is what you want, Anna, we can start right now." Her voice, it's thick and rough as rope the moment before she leaves me.

About three months ago, I borrowed Kate's makeup. Okay, so borrowed wouldn't be the right word, exactly: stole. I didn't have any of my own; I wasn't supposed to be allowed to wear it until I turned fifteen. But a miracle had happened, and Kate wasn't around to ask, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

The miracle was five-eight, with hair the color of Silver Queen corn silk and a smile that made me feel like I'd been spinning in circles. His name was Kyle and he'd moved from Idaho, right into the homeroom seat behind mine. He didn't know anything about me or my family, so when he asked me if I wanted to go to a movie with him I knew it wasn't because he felt sorry for me. We saw the new Spider-Man movie, or at least he did. I spent all my time trying to figure out how electricity could leap the tiny space between my arm and his.

When I came home, I still was walking about six inches above the ground, which is why Kate was able to blindside me. She knocked me onto my bed, pinned me by my shoulders. "You thief," she accused. "You went into my bathroom drawer without asking."

"You take my things all the time. You borrowed my blue sweatshirt two days ago."

"That's totally different. You can wash a sweatshirt."

"How come it's okay to have my germs floating around your arteries, but not on your freaking Max Factor Cherry Bomb lip gloss?" I shoved a little harder, and managed to roll us, so that now I had the upper hand.

Her eyes lit up. "Who was it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"If you're wearing makeup, Anna, there must have been a reason."

"Get lost," I said.

"Fuck off." Kate smiled at me. Then she reached one free hand under my arm and tickled me, taking me by surprise so much that I let go of her. A minute later we had wrestled off the bed, each of us trying to get the other to cry uncle. "Anna, stop already," Kate gasped. "You're killing me."

Those words, they were all it took. My hands fell off her as if I'd been burned. We lay shoulder to shoulder between our beds, staring up at the ceiling and breathing hard, both of us pretending that what she'd said had not cut quite so close to the bone.

In the car, my parents fight. Maybe we should hire a real lawyer, my father says, and my mother replies, / am one.

But Sara, my father says, if this isn't going to go away, all I'm saying is —

What are you saying, Brian? she challenges. What are you really saying? That some man in a suit whom you've never met would be able to explain Anna better than her own mother? And then my father drives the rest of the way in silence.

To my shock, there are TV cameras waiting on the steps of the Garrahy building. I'm sure they're here for something really big, so imagine my surprise when a microphone gets stuck into my face, and a reporter with helmet hair asks me why I am suing my parents. My mother pushes the woman away. "My daughter has no comment," she says, over and over; and when one guy asks if I'm aware that I am Rhode Island's first designer baby, I think for a minute she might actually deck him.

I've known since I was seven how I was conceived, and it wasn't that huge a deal. First off, my parents told me when the thought of them having sex was far more disgusting than the thought of creation in a petri dish. Second, by then tons of people were having fertility drugs and septuplets and my story wasn't really all that original anymore. But a designer baby? Yeah, right. If my parents were going to go to all that trouble, you'd think they'd have made sure to implant the genes for obedience, humility, and gratitude.

My father sits next to me on a bench, his hands knotted between his knees. Inside the judge's chambers, my mother and Campbell Alexander are verbally slugging it out. Here in the hallway, we're unnaturally quiet, as if they've taken all possible words with them and left us with nothing.

I hear a woman curse, and then Julia rounds the bend. "Anna. Sorry I'm late; I couldn't get past the media. Are you all right?"

I nod, and then I shake my head.

Julia kneels down in front of me. "Do you want your mother to leave the house?"

"No!" To my utter embarrassment, my eyes get glassy with tears. "I've changed my mind. I don't want to do this anymore. None of it."

She looks at me for a long moment, then nods. "Let me go in and talk to the judge."

When she leaves, I concentrate on getting air into my lungs. There are so many things I have to work hard at now, that I used to be able to carry out instinctively—draw in oxygen, keep my silence, do the right thing. The weight of my father's eyes on me makes me turn. "Did you mean it?" he asks. "About not wanting to do this anymore?"

I don't answer. I don't move a fraction of an inch.

"Because if you're still not sure, maybe it's not such a bad idea, having some breathing space. I mean, I've got that extra bed in my room at the station." He rubs the back of his neck. "It wouldn't be like we were moving out, or anything. Just. .." He looks at me.

"… breathing," I finish, and do just that.

My father stands up and holds out his hand. We walk out of the Garrahy Complex, side by side. The reporters come on like wolves, but this time, their questions bounce right off me. My chest feels full of glitter and helium, the way it used to when I was little and riding my father's shoulders at twilight, when I knew that if I held up my hands and spread my fingers like a net, I could catch the coming stars.

THERE MAY BE A SPECIAL CORNER of Hell for attorneys who are shamelessly self-aggrandizing, but you can bet we all are ready for our close-ups. When I arrive at the family court to find a horde of reporters on parade, I offer around sound bites as if they are candy, and make sure that the cameras are on me. I say the appropriate things about how this case is unorthodox, but ultimately painful for everyone involved. I hint that the judge's ruling may affect the rights of minors nationwide, as well as stem cell research. Then I smooth the jacket of my Armani suit, tug on Judge's leash, and explain that I really must go speak to my client.

Inside, Vern Stackhouse catches my eye and gives me a thumbs-up. I'd run into the deputy earlier, and very innocently asked whether his sister, a reporter for the ProJo, would be coming down today. "I can't really say anything," I hinted, "but the hearing … it's going to be pretty big."

In that special corner of Hell, there's probably a throne for those of us who try to capitalize off our pro bono work.

Minutes later, we are in chambers. "Mr. Alexander." Judge DeSalvo lifts up the motion for a restraining order. "Would you like to tell me why you've filed this, when I explicitly addressed the issue yesterday?"