Words That Start With B (10 page)

I can’t sleep. I’ve been trying for hours. No matter what I do I can’t seem to get comfortable. Denise is snoring away in the living room. She sounds like a lawn mower. No wonder I can’t sleep. I punch my pillows into shape, throw off my duvet, pull it back up again, but nothing works. Instead I decide to read.

I’m not really a big reader. I like reading fine; I just don’t spend all day and all night with my nose in a book like some people do. My favourite books are the Wizard of Oz books. I have read all fourteen books in the series, some of them more than once, like
Ozma of Oz,
which I might like even more than
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
.

I inherited all of my Oz books from Mom, which she had when she was little. They have delicate paper covers with old-fashioned paintings of a girl with blond curls and a short dress. She looks nothing like Dorothy in the movie. Apparently when Mom was my age she loved The Wizard of Oz, too. It’s hard to imagine her reading anything other than a magazine, let alone something as magical as The Wizard of Oz. She’s not really the fantasy type, but she read me the first Oz book and I’ve been hooked ever since. The others I read on my own, but I remember how exciting it
was when she’d come into my room before bed and read me one chapter a night.

Now I’m reading them all over again. They are just as good as I remembered. I read until my eyes are so heavy that I have no choice but to fall asleep. It seems to be the only thing that works.

***

“I bought you some things for lunch,” Denise says.

I look through the grocery bags and find a big jar of peanut butter.

“I can’t eat this,” I say, putting it back in the bag.

“When did you get so picky?” Denise complains.

“I can’t bring peanut butter. I’m not allowed.”

“Not allowed?”

“Because of nut allergies,” I explain.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Sorry.”

“When I was in school no one was allergic to peanuts,” Denise says.

I snort. “Was peanut butter even invented back then?”

“Fine, smarty pants. You can have bread and water then.”

Figures. That’s what they serve criminals in prisons, isn’t it?

The first time I see the flyer, I don’t think anything of it. There are just some kids huddled around a piece of paper laughing. But then I see other people in the halls with the same orange flyer, and by lunchtime it seems like everyone has one. Everyone except me and Benji. I don’t like to be left out of a joke, especially a big school-wide thing, so I march up to Mattie and ask to see her flyer. She won’t look me in the eye.

“Flyer?” she says sweetly.

“Yeah, the orange thing you stuffed in your pocket. Can I see it?”

“Why?” Mattie asks.

“Because I lost mine,” I lie.

“It’s nothing you want to see,” Mattie says.

“Oh never mind.”

I stomp off in search of another flyer, but they are maddeningly hard to find. That is until the bell rings and we head inside and find Benji’s locker covered in orange flyers. I rip one down to get a closer look. Someone has photocopied the definition of homosexual and pasted Benji’s yearbook photo underneath.

I try to shove Benji out of the way so he doesn’t see them, but there are too many. Whoever it was — and I have a
pretty good idea who’s behind it — has used packing tape, which makes it extremely hard to peel the flyers off. A group of people are pointing at us, me tearing at Benji’s locker and Benji just staring there all white-faced.

“What are you looking at?” I yell. They don’t even look guilty. I really hate people sometimes.

Suddenly Michael Greenblat is there, passing me a mini Swiss Army knife. “Here, use this.”

He looks nervous, maybe because he doesn’t want to be seen helping us out, or maybe because he knows pocket knives are not allowed at school and he doesn’t want to be caught. I slip the knife out of his hand and slice through the packing tape.

“Thanks,” I say, but when I turn to give it back Michael is already slinking away.

“Keep it,” he mutters. “I have another one.”

What am I supposed to do with a knife? I pocket it and hope that I don’t get caught with it.

The warning bell goes and I hurry to stuff the flyers in the garbage can, but not before folding one up and putting it in my binder. Benji looks sick.

“We need one for evidence,” I explain, but he doesn’t look convinced.

“I don’t feel well,” he mumbles.

I don’t know what to say. I can’t find the words to make Terry or the orange flyers or the whole thing go away. Instead I walk with him to class with my head up, daring anyone to say anything.

***

Benji goes home straight after school, claiming he feels sick to his stomach. I call him a few times but no one picks up.
Denise won’t be home till later, not that I’d tell her any of this stuff. She’d probably just overreact and call the police, although maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I can’t talk to Mom about it because she already thinks I went to the teacher and she’d be mad as a hatter when she found out I lied. Mr. Campbell is out of the question, and none of the kids at school care enough to do anything either. They’ve never really given Benji a chance.

And so I decide to write another letter to Principal Donner. This time I tell her that Mr. Campbell is “not the sharpest tool in the kit,” and that he misses things that happen right before his own eyes. At least that’s half true. By the time I’ve printed and signed it, I’m starting to feel a bit better.

I take the Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and hide it at the back of my sock drawer, next to the geode Michael gave me. For a second I think about calling him but I don’t know what I’d say. Why did you help me this afternoon? Thanks for the rock and the knife? No, I can’t call him. It would be too weird. Besides I don’t even have his number. I don’t understand boys. Still, it’s nice to get gifts, even if they are rocks and knives.

***

For some reason Denise thinks it is important for us to eat dinner together every night. She doesn’t make the mistake of trying her luck in the kitchen again, but sticks to the things she knows: pasta, takeout and frozen dinners. She pours a glass of wine for herself and lets me have a can of root beer, even though my mother would kill her if she knew. Some rules she sticks to like glue, but others she breaks without even batting a false eyelash.

“We almost never eat in the kitchen,” I say. “You know that. You’ve been here enough times.”

“I just thought it would be nice,” Denise says. “So. Any cute boys in your class or have you got your sights set on an older man? Maybe someone in grade eight? What about that boy with the rock? What was his name again?”

“His name is Michael, and it’s a geode, and I don’t like him.”

“Okay, okay. Just trying to make a little friendly conversation.”

We go back to eating our Lean Cuisine chicken pot pies in silence for awhile.

“You know, when your mother was younger, she had men falling all over her, too. And just like you, she didn’t give them the time of day. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

I look up but Denise is digging into her dinner like she hasn’t eaten in a week.

“Really?”

Denise nods. “You bet. I was positively sick with envy. I would’ve given anything for just one of those boys to look my way. Sometimes it was hard to be best friends with Annie Delaney.”

I don’t know why Denise is telling me this. It makes me feel uncomfortable. But a small part of me knows exactly how she feels, the part of me that thinks that sometimes it’s hard to be Annie Delaney’s daughter. Not that I’d ever tell her that.

***

Every night around eight o’clock my stomach starts to hurt. Nothing serious, just a little ache, like when you eat too much ice cream or are about to write a big test. It hurts right up until the phone rings and I hear my mother’s voice and then I can go back to feeling normal again. We always have the same conversation.

“Hi, baby. How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Anything funny happen?”

“Not really.”

“How’s Benji?”

“Fine,” I lie.

“Are you being good for Denise?”

Am I being
good for Denise
? Like I’m some sort of little kid and Denise is my babysitter.

“Yes.”

This is the part where I’m supposed to ask her how she’s feeling, but I can’t bring myself to do it. If I were a better person maybe I could, but the truth is I don’t want to know. If I ask her how she’s feeling and the answer is bad, then I have to think about how maybe she won’t get better. Or that even if she gets better this time, cancer can always come back.

“Good. It makes me happy to know you two are getting along together.”

I didn’t exactly say that, but I let it slide. I don’t want her to worry about anything except getting better. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. She tells me funny stories about the people she lives with and they all seem so normal that I forget that she’s away getting cancer treatment. I imagine that she’s at a big stylist’s convention, learning about new products and trading hair secrets.

“Well, put Denise on and I’ll let you get back to your homework.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye, baby. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

At least that much is true.

Disaster strikes during history.

“Mr. Campbell, may I have the washroom pass, please?”

He barely looks up at me from the overhead on ancient Egypt. “You just got back from lunch, Clarissa.”

“Yes.”

“Lunch or recess is the preferred time to use the washroom.”

“I know.”

“If you go now, you will miss out on the thrilling secret of Tutankhamen’s tomb.”

“Isn’t it in the textbook?”

Mr. Campbell throws his hands in the air. “Clarissa, Clarissa! Where is your sense of adventure? Of course it’s in the textbook, but I am going to reveal it to you piece by piece, as a sort of riddle. The Egyptians were crazy about riddles.”

I don’t care for riddles. They’ve been ruined by teachers who use them to teach you something and take all the fun out of them.

“I really need to go,” I insist.

Mr. Campbell sighs and gestures at the pass, hanging on a nail by the door. “Far be it for me to stand in the way of nature,” he says.

I slide out of my desk and saunter to the doorway as if nothing is out of the ordinary. I even take the time to shut the door gently behind me, which is more than I do in my own house. After I’m out of sight of the classroom, I walk as fast as I can without looking too stupid to the girl’s bathroom.

There in the stall my worst fears come true. I hadn’t been imagining things in class. There is a spot on my underwear. A brownish red spot. At first I’m not sure what it is. I thought it would be more red. How can this be? I am as flat as flat can be and yet here I am, with a dark stain staring up at me from the inside of my underwear. You are supposed to develop first and
then
get your period. That’s what the video said in health class. Everything is backward.

I check my jeans and hallelujah, there’s no stain; it hadn’t leaked through my underwear. I ball up a wad of toilet paper and start dabbing at the stain, but then I remember the time when Denise spilled red wine on my mom’s good (well, only) tablecloth, and Mom told her not to wipe at it because it would rub it in and she’d never be able to get it out. What if blood is like wine, and I am ruining my underwear forever? Not that it matters. The second I get home I’m going to throw them out so no one will ever find them. If I ever get out of the bathroom, that is.

How long have I been sitting here? Two minutes? Ten? Sooner or later Mr. Campbell will notice that I’m not back yet. He’ll send someone to come check on me. Then what? I could say I was sick, that I had bad ham in my sandwich and now I’m throwing up all over the place. I could blame Denise, who isn’t used to making lunches, and say she must have forgotten to check the expiry date before piling on the meat. All it would take is for Mr. Campbell to look in our fridge and he’d believe it in a second.

But even if I do make it back to class, how can I possibly act like everything is normal? I feel like a preschooler who has wet her pants, except this is way worse. When you’re a little kid no one cares if you wet your pants. Everyone has accidents once in awhile and everyone forgets about them the next day. People even bring spare underpants with them. But this is different. This, I’m supposed to be prepared for. Seventh graders are mean. And they never forget. I’ll never live it down.

And then there’s the problem of further stain prevention. There is a dispenser on the wall of the bathroom, but how am I supposed to get there with my underwear around my knees? Whoever designs bathrooms should really put a dispenser inside every stall. I hate this stupid bathroom in this stupid school. I hate being a girl. It’s not fair. Nothing happens to boys.

Now I’m actually starting to feel sick. My lunch is starting to bubble in my stomach and I’ve got that sour taste in my mouth that usually means I’m about to throw up. It’s getting harder to swallow the lumps in my throat, but I will not allow myself to cry.

Just then the door swings open and a pair of fussy black shoes with straps and ladybug buckles appears. You don’t need to be a genius at Whose Shoes to guess who it is. Only one person would wear ridiculous shoes like that.

“Clarissa?” says Mattie.

I resist the urge to draw my feet up onto the toilet seat. What good would it do? She already knows I’m here. There is only one girls’ bathroom on the second floor and she probably saw my feet when she walked in.

“Clarissa, are you okay?”

The last person I want to talk to is Mattie Cohen. She
probably volunteered to come and check on me. What a suck-up. This has to be the universe punishing me for being such a bad daughter.

“Clarissa?” She knocks on the stall. “I know you’re in there. Are you sick?”

“No. Well. Sort of.”

I watch as Mattie’s feet take a big step back from the stall. “Did you throw up?”

“No.”

There’s a long pause. I begin to hope that she’s left, but then her feet reappear by the stall.

“Is it — I mean, do you need, like, something from the dispenser?”

This is my chance. I can sit here until school gets out and hope no one else comes looking for me, which is unlikely, or ask Mattie Cohen to get me a pad. I know what the right choice is but that doesn’t make it any easier. Mattie can’t keep a secret. In ten minutes the whole class will know that Clarissa Delaney has her period. But what other option do I have?

“Yes.” There. I said it. The jig is up.

“I’ll get you one! My mom gave me an emergency quarter for this sort of thing but I’ve never had to use it. I haven’t gotten mine yet. You’re so lucky, Clarissa.”

I don’t feel lucky. I feel heavy. Plus, my stomach is really starting to ache. Maybe these are my first cramps. On the other side of the stall, Mattie kneels and passes me a pad wrapped up in a light pink wrapper.

“What does it feel like?” she asks.

“Wet.”

“Ewww, that’s gross.”

“Of course, it’s gross. It’s blood.”

The pad is huge, like someone cut a fat strip out of a diaper. I stand up. It even feels like I’m wearing a diaper. Will people be able to tell? Oh, well. It’s either ruin my clothing or wear the diaper — or worse, a tampon, and I don’t even want to think about that process. I flush the toilet and emerge from the stall, almost smacking Mattie in the face with the door.

“Cripes, do you have to stand so
close?
”

Mattie jumps back and looks me up and down, like she’s searching for proof.

“Do you feel different?” she asks.

“Not really. My stomach hurts a little.”

Mattie nods. “Cramps. My mother says the best thing to do is to lie in bed with a hot water bottle and avoid sugar.”

I’m pretty sure we don’t have a water bottle. Maybe I can convince Mom to get me one. Then the realization hits me like a sucker punch to the stomach. Mom’s not home. I’ll have to tell Denise. She’ll probably cry and insist on doing my makeup to welcome me to womanhood. Barf. If only there was a way to keep it secret from her, but someone needs to go to the drugstore and buy me my own supply of pads, and I don’t think I can stand any more embarrassment.

“My mom gave me this book and it said that once you get your period, you are no longer a girl, but a real woman, like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Butterflies don’t bleed.”

Mattie looks disappointed. “So you don’t feel any different at all?”

“No.”

That isn’t exactly true. I don’t feel any different, but I know that from now on things have changed. I wonder how old my mother was when she got her period, and if she got
cramps. I wonder how long her period is, and if I should expect mine to be the same. What brand of (ugh) pad does she use? There are lots of things I want to ask her, but she is scheduled for another round of chemo this afternoon. It will have to wait. I wash my hands with extra soap and then I wash them again. Mattie is staring at me in the mirror.

“Are the cramps really bad?” she asks.

“Yes,” I lie.

“Maybe you can go home. I’ll go with you to the nurse.”

“Okay.” My voice wobbles dangerously. Tears are building up again behind my eyes. I just want to be home and away from everyone and everything. I don’t feel like a woman at all. I feel like a baby. What is wrong with me? I yank my shirt down as far as it will go and frown into the mirror.

“Don’t worry,” Mattie says. “You can’t tell at all.”

I don’t know how she does it, but Mattie sure is good at reading people’s minds.

“Not even when I walk?” I ask.

I head toward the door, sure that I’m walking as bowlegged as a cowboy in a cartoon. But Mattie shakes her head.

“No, you just look like regular Clarissa.”

“Good.”

Mattie marches right into the nurse’s office and announces that I’m feeling very under the weather and need to go home. I keep my mouth shut and let her do most of the talking. When the nurse asks me what my symptoms are, Mattie cuts in and says, “I found her in the bathroom throwing up,” without blinking an eye. The nurse has me lay down on a cot with a cloth over my eyes. She sends Mattie to get my things while she calls home.

“I’ll just give your mother a call and tell her to come pick you up,” she says.

“My mother’s in London,” I say. And because I’m feeling mean, I add, “She’s at Hopestead Manor, recovering from cancer treatment. You have to call Denise Renzetti.”

There is a silence and the rustling of paper and I know the nurse is checking my file. How can she not know about my situation? Everyone else seems to know about it. The nurse clears her throat and I know she feels bad about mentioning my mother. She should feel bad! I wonder if she could be fired for making such a stupid mistake.

“Ah, here it is. Denise Renzetti.”

My stomach is really hurting now, and the pain has spread to my lower back. I can’t hold back the tears any longer. They slip silently from under my lashes and soak into the cloth over my eyes. Thank goodness for that cloth. I guess the universe or someone has started to feel sorry for me. About time.

***

In the car I say nothing to Denise and she asks me no questions. I overheard the nurse telling her that there is a flu going around and I seem to have caught it. Some nurse. She didn’t even take my temperature. I could have something really terrible, but she took Mattie’s word. It just goes to show you that goody-two-shoes teacher’s pets like Mattie Cohen can get away with anything.

Denise buys it hook, line and sinker. “I’m sorry I can’t stay with you, Clarissa, but I’ve got a real big client at two. Is there something you want me to bring back for you from the grocery store? Ginger ale? Chicken soup?”

I shrug and stare out the window at all the people going about their normal lives. It always surprises me to see how many people there are walking around, not in school or at
work, and not just moms and babies. Teenagers, adults, all sorts of people. I wonder how many of them are playing hooky, like me, or how many of them have their periods.

Denise sighs and I can tell she’s trying real hard to be understanding, even though she hates it when I pull a Sullen Sally. The truth is I don’t think I can bring myself to ask for what I really need. I decide to check under the sink first. Denise pulls into the driveway.

“Ginger ale would be good,” I mutter.

“Ginger ale it is. See you in a few hours.”

***

It’s quiet in the house, except for the hum of the refrigerator and every once in awhile the rattle of hot air rushing through the vents. It makes me feel cozy. The first thing I do is root out a bag of chips and two s’mores granola bars. Then I turn the radio on loud enough to hear it in the bathroom, where I run a bath as hot as I can stand it. I use a double dose of bubble bath and soon the bubbles are so thick and frothy I can’t see the water below them, like extra thick vanilla icing on a birthday cake.

I peel off my clothes and throw them in the hamper, except for the ruined underwear, which I wrap in the empty chip bag and shove way down in the garbage can where I can be sure it will never be found. It’s almost like it never happened. Then I sink beneath the bubbles and let them work their cleaning, tingling magic. The man on the radio is giving away $10,000 to the next caller and I think about what I would do with that money. Go on a trip, maybe. With Mom, Benji, and maybe Denise, if I’m feeling extra nice. Maybe we could go to Disneyland.

After my bath I feel warm and sleepy. It’s just after three
o’clock in the afternoon. School’s out and Denise will be home with my ginger ale soon. All I want to do is curl up in bed and sleep away the next five to seven days, but first I need to be sure that nothing like today’s incident ever happens again. Sure enough, under the sink I find a whole stash of pads. With wings, without, long, contoured, pantiliners. Who knew there were so many types? The idea of leakage makes my heart beat faster, so I go for extra long with wings. The more protection the better. This one doesn’t feel as bulky as the pad from the girl’s bathroom, but I can still feel it. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.

Once I’m in bed the phone rings. It’s Benji, I know it is. It’s something I’ve always been able to do, like those people on
TV
who say they knew that the phone call was bad news before they even answered it. A sort of ESP thing — not that I believe in that kind of hocus-pocus, but there isn’t any other way to explain it. I guess some people are more connected than others.

I let the phone ring, four times, five, until I lose count. I don’t feel like talking to him. I don’t want to tell him about the bathroom, or Mattie, or any of it. He wouldn’t understand. He’s a boy, how could he? Of all the bad things about the whole situation, not being able to tell Benji is one of the worst. Before this, I could tell him anything and he would understand. I never thought there would be a day when I didn’t want to tell him something about my life. Especially something so huge. This was something we couldn’t share, ever. It makes the ache in my stomach worse.

The answering machine beeps and whoever it is doesn’t leave a message, which just proves it was Benji because answering machines make him nervous and he never leaves a message.