Remember Charlie Bischman? Ponytail science geek, used to watch us from the bleachers? Well, Stacie, guess who drunk-dialed me in August? And know what’s weird? I thought he was dead! Didn’t someone tell us that? Drove his Vespa off a cliff or into a tree or something? Anyway, it’s like 3 a.m. and I’m thinking I’m talking to a ghost, saying, Wow, Charlie, how are you? and he’s like, Stacey I’ve worshipped you since high school even though you were so cruel to me - and he’s completely wasted, right?
And then he says, So would you, like, have my baby?
I had to teach a Comp. Lit. section at 9 a.m., so I say, Gosh Charlie, that’s sweet—let’s sleep on it and you call me sometime, ‘K?
Next night he actually calls back—totally sober—and gives me this crazy pitch!
Turns out little not-so-dead Charlie is doing quite well for himself, and he says if I go through with this, I get a hundred and fifty grand plus medical expenses, no strings. So now I’m listening, right? He’s going on about options and contingencies, and I’m Googling him to see if he’s for real. No kidding, Charlie Bischman is totally famous! He patented these robotic surgical micro-tweezer things and now the guy’s loaded! I know!
And how’re you planning to explain to people how you suddenly have a baby? I say, kinda stalling for time ‘cuz my mind is really jammed up over this. And all business-casual, like he’s already thought of everything, he says, Oh, I’ll say I hooked up with a beautiful mysterious lady at a bar, we had consensual sex, and unbeknownst to me she got pregnant. One day I go out to my Tesla and there’s this baby strapped in the passenger seat, with a note, and so of course I do the right thing and raise it as my own. Smart, right?
And I tell you, it started making sense—like, dollars and sense, you know? Hey, my thesis is totally stalled out—my advisor barely remembers my name, and how am I supposed to get a teaching job without his stupid recommendation? A hundred and fifty grand could even shut my parents up; What’s that Dad? What was I doing all year? I was growing a rich man’s child in my womb, Dad, that’s what!
Two nights later we’re having dinner at Charlie’s mansion, drinking this really nice merlot, and next thing I know we’re going at it in his ginormous bed! He looks so much better, by the way—the ponytail kind of suits him now—very entrepreneurial. And he definitely got a personal trainer. And those teeth of his? They’re like, perfect now. Fertile Myrtle here gets knocked up on the first round!
Then a couple of weeks ago, at my eight-month check-up with the OB Charlie’s having me go to, who waddles into the waiting room but the rest of the Cooperville cheerleading squad! I hadn’t seen them in like twelve years, and suddenly there’s Marnie, Brenda, Haley and Francie, coming at me like a bunch of Bosu Balls, and we’re all, What the fuck?
The receptionist hands out fat new legal contracts—the original ones were just downloaded from LegalZoom, apparently—and takes us to this room where Charlie’s Zooming in on this huge screen. He reveals he’s making us each the same deal: the hundred and fifty grand tax free, but only one of the babies gets to be his heir. He’ll choose based on its Apgar score, cuteness potential and his own “visceral reaction” to its cry. The mom of the chosen kid gets a bonus hundred grand, a fat monthly stipend, and the suggested option of becoming Mrs. Charlie Bischman. Losers keep the babies, and a consolation trust fund, unless they opt for the lump sum buyout.
So I’m super pumped, because Marnie just had these scrawny little twins, which disqualified her (the contract excludes multiples-duh), and honestly, Brenda and Haley’s babies were pretty, well, meh. Francie is due any day, but with her weight gain, it’s gonna come stomping outta her like Big Foot. So I’m thinking I’m about to be a gazillionaire, and both Dad and my advisor can bite me.
And honestly, Stacie, I don’t know if I’ll marry Charlie. I mean, get real— he’s such a geeky little twerp, right? I do have standards for fuck’s sake.
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