In the final week, the students become hollow. Their skin goes translucent, like onion paper. You can see what has been growing in there: not a child, but a with your own name on it, dated the day you were born.
You will file into the basement auditorium. The lights are the color of a bruise. You will lie on a gurney. A cold, stethoscope-like device—too long, too flexible—will be inserted into your navel. spooky pregnant school: the quickening
It is written in the style of a (a "lost student handbook entry"). THE QUICKENING An excerpt from the St. Agatha’s Guide to Term 3 (Unabridged, 1974) Warning to the Newly Swollen: By the time you feel the first flutter, it is already too late to withdraw. In the final week, the students become hollow
“What is the square root of a nursery rhyme?” Question 2: “If you have three shadows, but only one mother, which shadow carries the scissors?” Question 3 (Practical): “Make the thing inside you kick in perfect 4/4 time. On the off-beat, whisper the name of the girl who will not survive delivery week.” You will file into the basement auditorium
You will be sitting in Remedial Latin. You will feel a tiny, sharp kick against your lower ribs. You will gasp. The girl next to you—her belly a perfect, taut globe—will not look up. She knows what that kick means:
When The Quickening ends, you are wheeled to the “Delivery Wing.” The doors have no handles. The walls are lined with wet, red velvet.