I’ve still got a year. But I read a lot. Between Judy Blume and Paul Zindel, I know everything.”

That’s as scary a statement as I’ve ever heard. “So you know about sex?”

“Yes.” Her lips compress primly beneath the brim of her straw hat. It’s actually my hat, but she claimed it once we sat down.

I push my sunglasses even higher so they rest on top of my head. “You know about getting your period?”

“Yes.”

“You know how babies are made?”

“Doesn’t that fall under the sex question?”

Wow. She does seem to know quite a bit, and I watch her as she returns to the magazine she’s reading.

“This is so ick,” she says in disgust, turning a page in the bridal magazine on her lap. She brought three bridal magazines to the pool today and has been riveted for the last few hours by the oversize glossy publications. “There’s nothing nice in here at all.”

“Which magazine is that?”

“Seattle Bride.” She tosses aside the slender magazine with a contemptuous snort and reaches for another. “They don’t know how to do weddings in Seattle. The styles are so ugly. The best weddings are always in the South.”

I can’t stop staring at her. So hard to believe this little girl came from me.

“So, Mom, back to my question,” she says, flipping through the next magazine, Southern Bride. “Can nonvirgins wear white?”

“Yes,” I answer reluctantly, thinking this is a discussion I’d very much like to avoid. “It’s done all the time.”

“So you don’t have to wear ivory or pink?”

“That’s an old rule. No one follows that anymore.” Or there’d be no white weddings, either.

Eva pauses briefly to study a beaded gown with an equally ornate veil. “Obviously, virgins can’t have babies. Well, except for the Virgin Mary, but that was an exception to the rule, so if you’ve had a baby . . .” Her voice trails off as she looks up at me. “Probably not a virgin.”

“Probably not,” I agree.

“So you’re definitely not a virgin.”

“Eva.”

“I’m just asking.”

“It’s none of your business, but no, I’m not a virgin. Not that I had sex to make you.”

“Gross. Don’t talk about making me.”

“You’re the one talking about virgins!”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is. Ew.” She shudders and slams Southern Bride closed before turning on the lounge chair to face me, her long dark hair falling over her thin shoulders. She’s so skinny that her hipbones jut out and her long legs look vaguely storklike. “Too bad you can’t wear white at your wedding, though, because ivory dresses are u-g-l-y. Ugly.”

I don’t know who this child is or where she came from. I know she’s biologically mine—she looks just like me at nine—but what about the rest of her DNA? Whose sperm did I buy, anyway?

“I could wear white, Eva, but I don’t have, nor do I want, a boyfriend. And the last thing I’m interested in is ever getting married.”

She sighs wearily. “But if you don’t even give marriage a try, how can you say you don’t like it?”

Advil, Advil, Advil.