Chapter 1

There was a lot of screaming.

There was also a lot of blood, hand squeezing and nurses yelling "Come on!

One last push!" when the ordeal was blatantly far from over.

No matter how many times the monotonous voiceover called it "the miracle of birth", we just couldn't see it.

What I could see was something the size of a watermelon being forced out a gap clearly not designed for the purpose.

All in all, the birth video was not what the twenty or so students in our health class wanted to see on a sticky Friday afternoon.

With our usual classroom out of bounds for fumigation, we'd already been shoved into the gym - a room better labeled "the human oven" - and the heat alone was enough to induce queasiness.

Throw in a clip of a woman giving birth and it was a wonder no one had passed out yet.

If Coach Eaton was trying to put us all off childbirth forever, he was doing a good job.

My best friend, Bryson, was squeezed onto the bleacher beside me.

Glancing over, I saw he shared the same horrified expression that was worn by most of our classmates.

His gangly height of six foot meant his knees were stuck much higher in the air than mine, and the look on his color-drained face told me it'd probably need to be between them soon.

Bryson had always been squeamish - when I'd broken my wrist in middle school, he'd earned his own ambulance ride by passing out at the sight - but this was in a different league.

"Hey," I whispered, nudging his elbow gently, "you okay?"

I saw him swallow before nodding back at me.

"Yeah."

The video ended shortly afterward, just after the woman was handed her baby - an odd, squidgy creature that looked vaguely extraterrestrial.

After shutting it off, Coach Eaton sauntered to the front of the class, wearing a smug expression like he'd just single-handedly wiped out teen pregnancy.

Which, in our class, he probably had.

"So," he said, "that brings us to the end of the module.

And, as you probably know, that means it's time for your assignment."

Usually, the mention of any of the dreaded words (assignment, homework or pop quiz) was enough to send a resounding groan through the class.

Today, however, it seemed everyone was a little too shell-shocked by what we'd just witnessed to do anything but stare back.

Instead of facing resistance, all Coach Eaton received was a wave of silence that fell across the room.

"This assignment is different than what you're used to," he continued, unfazed.

"It doesn't involve any writing, which I'm sure a lot of you will be happy about.

But if you think that it's going to be easy, well... you're in for a shock."

He bent down to retrieve something from the floor.

Stealing a few quick glances at my classmates, I noticed that there were still a lot of pale faces, and even more widened eyes.

I could tell the video was going to be burned into their head for a while yet.

Although I did feel a little queasy, it was probably attributed to the stifling heat and lack of air-conditioning, not to mention the thick mist of other girls' perfume I was currently breathing in. I guess I had been slightly more prepared; I'd been there to witness my mom giving birth to my little sister, Camilla, three years ago.

Even so, I'd kept to way more of a distance than the cameraman of that video.

Suddenly, Coach Eaton reappeared.

In his arms he held a large box, its lid closed enough to effectively conceal its contents.

"This," he announced, pulling it open, "is your new project."

Recognition swept over me the moment I caught sight of it.

Who wouldn't?

It was every high schooler's worst nightmare; the one project you definitely couldn't do the night before it was due.

The baby project.

He explained it, but pretty much everyone was familiar with the concept.

One half of a "couple", you were handed a baby simulator and stuck with it for the entire week.

Seven whole days.

That was, of course, if you lasted that long without tumbling into a pit of insanity.

The simulator was essentially a plastic doll, made to look (not very successfully) like a real baby.

Inside was a recording device, there to monitor how well the baby was looked after.

So, if you happened to drop the baby out of a three-storey window (regardless of whether or not the head fell off), your chances of a good grade might be a little screwed.

I know this because it happened to Bryson's brother.

"Pick a partner, and choose wisely," Coach Eaton ordered.

"I'll assign anyone without one."

Without thinking, I made a grab for Bryson's arm.

I'd done the same for almost every group project since middle school; now, it was almost like a reflex.

As soon as the word "partner" slipped out of any teacher's mouth, I'd seal the deal with a glance or nudge in his direction, as if he needed to be claimed.

I don't know why I bothered, really; it wasn't like either of us had a host of other options.

The two of us were known as "the quiet ones", meaning we were overlooked most of the time.

Not that it bothered me - or Bryson.

We were happy to blend into the background, which was probably why we got on so well.

For years now, we'd been just Dalia-and-Bryson, lumped together and practically classed as one person.

There was a brief scuffling for partners, in which everyone weighed up their options and made a grab for the best person to "marry".

Apparently, most of them had recovered enough from the initial scarring of the birth video, leaving them able to concentrate on the upcoming project (Bryson included, who was looking considerably less pale).

When everyone was paired up, Coach Eaton dumped the box on the table and told everyone to form an orderly queue.

This was, of course, our cue to all scramble to our feet and dash to the front without mercy.

It was a known fact that the best - most normal-looking - babies would be handed out first, with the faulty and slightly deformed left at the bottom (i.e. ones that had been dropped out of a three-storey window).

Along with everyone else, I leaped off the bleacher, yanking Bryson with me.

There was no way I was getting stuck with a deformed baby.

Unfortunately, my brain operated too quickly for my uncoordinated feet.

Somewhere between hopping down onto the lower bleacher and the floor, my shoe collided with a rogue edge.

Then, before I could even comprehend what was happening, I had face-planted right onto the polished floor with a satisfying smack.

"Whoa," I heard Bryson's concerned voice move closer as he leaped to the site of the accident, "Dalia, are you okay?"

My head was throbbing painfully, my foot twisted at an odd angle, and I let out a low groan as the pain registered.

Even worse, though, was the crippling embarrassment that sunk in when I realized my whole health class had just played witness to my moment of clumsiness.

I didn't need to lift my head to know that they were all straining to hold back laughter.

"Dalia?"

Using all my energy, I forced myself into a sitting position, rubbing at my sore head.

Catching a glimpse at Bryson, he was the picture of worry - his eyes wide, his hand hovering awkwardly like it didn't know quite where to comfort.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Really."

Coach Eaton had a surprising attitude of indifference toward my accident.

Instead of coming to my rescue - or even asking if I needed to see the nurse - his assistance was limited to a brief "You alright?", before handing newlyweds Brynn (world's biggest airhead) and Blake (jock, built like a skyscraper) their baby.

The babies.

Courtesy of my uncoordinated limbs, Bryson and I inevitably pulled up the rear in the mad dash for the box.

By the time we got there, the only baby left was a slightly deflated looking one with a dodgy left eye.

It was clad in a grayish diaper and absolutely nothing else; even the top of its head was smoothly bald, matching the rest of its plastic skin.

When tipped back, its glassy eyeball rolled around uncontrollably.

Looking down at the child we'd been blessed with, it struck me that it looked more like a prop from a low-budget horror movie than a health class baby simulator.

But it was the only option, and I realized - as with a real baby - Bryson and I were just going to have to learn to love it.

"Congratulations, Mommy," he said, his lips curling into an amused smile, "it's a girl."