This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Cynthia spent the night in Carlos’ bedroom. They messed around a bit but shortly fell asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted from the previous few days’ physical and emotional tolls.
The following day, they had lunch with Monica, piled into the van at around 4 PM, and headed west toward the Everglades. Before she pulled onto the highway, Cynthia asked Monica to stop by a local pharmacy. She hadn’t forgotten about the Plan B.
Monica parked the car and turned to Cynthia from the driver’s seat.
“You got money?” she asked.
Cynthia looked at her quizzically.
“Yeah, I have my credit and debit cards.”
Monica shook her head.
“That’s no good. The spooks will be able to track your card purchases.”
Monica gave Carlos an expectant look.
“Come on, Prince Charming,” she urged.
Carlos practically hopped out of his seat.
“Right!” he said. “Of course! Yeah, this is also my fault and I won’t have to deal with the side effects, so it only makes sense that I pay.”
He pulled three $50 bills out of his wallet and offered them to Cynthia. She recoiled like they might bite her.
“No, no, I don’t feel comfortable doing that,” she demurred. “I can pay…”
“Do you have cash?” interrupted Monica.
“Yes…”
Monica rolled her eyes.
“Do you have enough cash?”
“Probably…not… not enough, I don’t think…”
“Then drop the misplaced fourth wave feminism, take the man’s money, and don’t get pregnant.”
Cynthia side eyed the bills before taking them from Carlos.
“Thanks,” she said.
“No problem,” he replied.
The sliding doors opened and Cynthia was subsumed in a surge of over-frigid air before she even entered the pharmacy. Its Arctic sterility reminded her of Elzos’ lobby. She walked past the register, the candy, the makeup posters selling the latest influencer-sponsored eyeshadow, and down a faded blue carpet toward the family planning aisle, where she was surprised to find the morning after pills behind a padlocked plastic barrier. Right next them were a dizzying array of condom brands, all out in the open, a few advertising three-for-one deals.
Cynthia approached the pharmacist behind her counter.
“Hey, um, why is the Plan B behind a barrier?” she asked.
The young blonde woman sported a half-up that brushed the collar of her white coat. She gave Cynthia a pained expression.
“It’s the new state law,” she explained apologetically. “All morning after pills need to be locked up. Something about ensuring the moral sanctity of Florida’s women. I’m sorry, but I can’t open it. You have to ask the register for help.”
Cynthia pursed her lips and nodded. A disconcerting apprehension crept up the back of her neck.
“OK, thanks,” she replied and headed toward the checkout.
The cashier was a pale, middle-aged, heavyset woman with pencil-thin eyebrows, overly dark dyed hair, a thick Cuban accent, and a rosary around her neck.
“¿Qué necesitas, mi vida?”[1] she asked when Cynthia approached.
“I’d like some help with the morning after pill,” answered Cynthia. “Could you please open the case?”
All traces of conviviality dropped from the woman’s face like a lead weight. Cynthia could feel the judgment radiate off her. The cashier wordlessly grabbed a set of keys from under the counter and led Cynthia back to the family planning aisle. Once there, she rounded on Cynthia.
“Driver’s license, please,” she demanded with an unceremoniously outstretched hand.
“Huh?” replied Cynthia. “Why?”
“State law,” said the woman. “Can’t have young girls and illegals taking the abortion pill.”
Cynthia wondered how long the woman had been in the country. She wanted to correct her lack of contraceptive knowledge but thought better of it.
“That seems a bit punitive,” said Cynthia, despite herself. She handed over her license. “Does that mean the state wants girls and undocumented immigrants to have unplanned pregnancies?”
The cashier looked it over like a bouncer at a club. She handed it back to Cynthia.
“Yeah, well, no one makes women act like jineteras,”[2] she said, taking her sweet time unlocking the case.
Cynthia chose not to answer. She reached in but the woman snatched her wrist before she could grab a box.
“Remember,” said the cashier. “You can only take two boxes at a time, just in case you planned a busy weekend.”
She gave Cynthia a condescending smile.
“It’s state law.”
Cynthia loosed herself from the woman’s grip, took two boxes of Plan B and then three boxes of condoms for good measure. She stacked them into a precariously leaning tower and marched to the cash register.
Cynthia tapped her fingers on the counter as the woman slowly ambled back, stopping to check every aisle along the way.
“It doesn’t bother you that Florida is policing women’s bodies like this?” asked Cynthia as the woman rang her up. She handed her the $150.
“That’s between you and your priest,” said the cashier, inspecting all three $50 bills with the intensity of a lifelong counterfeit expert.
“I don’t have a priest,” answered Cynthia.
“Yes, I can tell.”
The woman glanced at the purchases.
Cynthia’s eyes narrowed. She opened a box of Plan B, removed the pill, and swallowed it, all without breaking eye contact with the cashier. She left the box and wrapper on the counter, grabbed the plastic bag with her purchases, and walked out of the pharmacy.
The van door opened and she climbed in.
“I hate this fucking state,” exclaimed Cynthia as she slammed the door shut.
[1] “What do you need, my love?”
[2] Whores.
