Twelve

by Lauren Myracle

  “The shallow end? Why?”

  I was already swimming away.

  “Isn’t this fun?” I said, sitting with my lower body submerged on the fish-shaped tiles. “Those kids going down the slide are so cute. I could watch them all day. Couldn’t you?”

  “Uh, no,” Cinnamon said. She looked at me strangely. “Don’t you want to dive some more?”

  “You go on,” I said. “I’ll watch from here.”

  So she did. That was one thing about Cinnamon: she had no problem doing her own thing. She trotted off and joined Ansley and Sydney, and I stayed put, legs tightly crossed.

  When it was time for everyone to go to the upstairs party room, I hopped out of the pool and dashed for my towel, which I wrapped snug around my hips. I didn’t enjoy my cake. I couldn’t have cared less about watching Louise open her presents. All I could think about was me and my leaky body and how desperately I wanted Louise’s party to be over.

  Please don’t let anything show through, I prayed when we headed for the dressing room. I clanked open my locker and grabbed my clothes.

  “Why are you putting your jeans on over your suit?” Sydney asked me.

  I laughed, like huh, would you look at that. “Whoops!”

  “Your butt’s going to get wet,” she pointed out.

  “Oh well.”

  Jeans on and sweatshirt tied around my waist, I told Louise thanks for inviting me.

  “I had a blast,” I said.

  “Don’t you want to ask your mom if you can stay longer?” Louise asked. “A bunch of us are going to hang out at the snack bar.”

  “I wish I could, but we’ve got errands,” I said. “Bye!”

  I fast-walked out of the locker room, acutely aware of the dampness between my legs. I thought of the tampon floating somewhere in the pool, then blocked it from my mind. All I wanted was to go home.

  That night, I had nightmare fantasies of the lifeguards finding my soggy tampon. What if they had some way of identifying who it belonged to? What if they fingerprinted it and connected it to me? What if they made a huge announcement and everybody found out and I got in big, big trouble?

  I couldn’t make my brain stop worrying about it. I tossed and squirmed in my bed, imagining them thumbtacking the tampon by its string to the pool’s bulletin board. THIS IS NOT ALLOWED, the sign underneath would read. WOULD THE OWNER PLEASE REPORT TO THE FRONT DESK IMMEDIATELY.

  Last summer a baby pooped in the Garden Hills pool, and they had to drain the entire thing. What if they had to drain Mulberry Pool because of me? What if they contacted Louise’s parents, because we were the main teenage-ish girls there that day, and Louise said, “Ohhhh, I do remember one person who was acting kind of funny. It was Winnie Perry. She put her jeans on on top of her wet bathing suit. Suspicious, isn’t it?”

  Shut up, I told my brain. You’re being ridiculous. Even if they did have to drain the pool, they couldn’t blame it on me, could they?

  I got out of bed, because I thought I’d probably go crazy if I stayed put. I padded barefoot to Sandra’s room. Her lights were out, but I sat down on her bed anyway. She grunted.

  “Did you finish your pot holder?” I said. I felt hostile toward that pot holder, and toward Sandra, too. She should have been instructing me in feminine hygiene instead of making pot holders for her boyfriend.

  “Yes,” Sandra said. “It’s the most fabulous pot holder in the world. Why are you bothering me?”

  I scowled. I wanted her to just know; I didn’t want to have to tell her.

  “Did something happen at the pool party?” she asked.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because. You came home in a major funk, you didn’t say a word at dinner, and now you’re in here bugging me when I should be getting my beauty sleep. What’s your deal?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Be that way.” I got up and stalked to the door.

  “Winnie, come back,” Sandra said. She sighed and pushed herself to a sitting position. Grudgingly, I returned.

  “So what happened?” Sandra asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “But I am not a fan of tampons.”

  “Oh no. Did it come out when it wasn’t supposed to?”

  I nodded.

  “Not . . . in the pool, did it?”

  “No!” I said hotly. I burst into tears.

  Sandra put her arm around me. She pulled me to her, and I pressed my forehead to her shoulder. It felt good to cry.

  “You’ve just got to make it go in further,” Sandra said. “Next time, just push it all the way in.”

  “There’s not going to be a next time.”

  Sandra rubbed my back. She could be really nice when she wanted to be.

  After a long minute, I sniffled and pulled away.

  “Am I a bad person?” I asked.

  “No, you’re not a bad person.” She looked me in the eye. “Every single female on the planet has an embarrassing period story, I guarantee you.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. It just . . . comes with the territory.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “So go to bed and forget about it. You’re still the same old you.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. I’d gone to Louise’s party feeling like the queen of cool, and now fate and the joy of being a woman had toppled me from my throne with one quick smack. Dinah, who was uncool, was the lucky one. Far better to have stayed at home than to have left a waterlogged tampon as your personal calling card.

  But my tears had washed me clean. And the next day failed to bring a squad of police cars to my door, ready to hustle me away to jail. No unidentified tampon was featured in the morning news. Louise, when I saw her Monday morning at school, treated me the same as ever. So did all the other girls.

  If the tampon had been traced to me, it would have been bad. Very bad. And that was freaky to think about, how life could go from wonderful to terrible in the blink of an eye.

  But for now, miraculously, I was safe.

  February

  LET’S CALL DINAH,” Cinnamon said. She’d come home with me from school, and we needed something to do. We’d already pigged out on Doritos and Dr Pepper, and neither of us wanted to watch TV. Anyway, the Oprah that was on was one we’d already seen. It was one with Dr. Phil, who, face it, could be a little too parentish.

  “Okay,” I said. My eyes followed the embroidery on Cinnamon’s brown hoodie. It looked like a dragon, kind of, but it wasn’t a “for sure” sort of thing. What was for sure was that it was adorable. She’d paired it with jeans that she’d trimmed herself with a length of funky blue ribbon. I had total outfit envy.

  “But we won’t tell her that both of us are here,” Cinnamon said. “I’ll talk, and you listen in.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “So that she and I can talk about you, and you can find out what she really thinks.”

  I must have looked shocked, because Cinnamon gave me the eyebrow quirk she reserved for when she thought I was acting young.

  “Have you never done this before?” she said.

  I shook my head.

  “Well, it’s fun. Just stay quiet—I’ll do all the talking.” She grabbed the phone and punched in Dinah’s number. As she did, I wondered if this was such a good idea. But I kept my mouth shut.

  Cinnamon snuggled next to me on the sofa, the phone nestled between our ears.

  “Hi, Dinah, it’s me,” Cinnamon said.

  “Hi, Cinnamon,” Dinah said. She sounded pleased. And far away, like a little-bitty Dinah off on her own. She’d also recognized Cinnamon’s voice right away, which surprised me for some reason. I guess they talked on the phone more than I realized.

  “What’s up?” Cinnamon said.

  “Not much, just doing my homework. What’s up with you?”

  They chatted about an English assignment and about Ms. Eaton’s hair, and I leaned back against the cushion. So far, their conversation was completely normal. Boring, even, although there was a
thrill in listening in without Dinah’s knowledge. “The Secret Life of Dinah,” I thought, as if it were a sitcom.

  “Uh-huh,” Cinnamon said. “Uh-huh.” Then she nudged me with her knee. “So what about Winnie? Was she there for any of that?” Dinah had been describing a bathroom run-in with Louise, in which Louise had told Dinah that Dinah’s pants were too short. Which was true, actually.

  “No, Winnie was in French,” Dinah said.

  “With Lars,” Cinnamon said. I stifled a giggle. “Do you think anything’s ever going to come of that?”

  “Winnie and Lars?” Dinah said. “They are so cute.”

  “I wish she’d go ahead and make her move, though,” Cinnamon said. I opened my mouth indignantly, and she gave me a look that said, Relax. “I mean, it’s kind of annoying how all they do is talk. Don’t you think?”

  “What else would they do?” Dinah asked.

  Ha, I thought.

  “I just think she should be more aggressive,” Cinnamon said.

  “I think she’s doing just fine,” Dinah said loyally. “Anyway, it’s working, isn’t it?”

  “But her clothes. She doesn’t even try to dress sexy. And what’s up with those baggy T-shirts?”

  Cinnamon was talking trash about me more than Dinah was, and it kind of made me laugh, but it kind of made me feel weird, too. Did she believe the things she was saying, even a little? Did she really think my shirts were too baggy? I liked baggy. Baggy made me feel safe.

  “Winnie looks cute no matter what,” Dinah said. “Winnie would look cute in a sack.”

  Cinnamon rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s true,” she said. I stuck my tongue out at her.

  “Cinnamon,” Dinah said, “do you, um . . .”

  “What?”

  “Do you think I dress sexy?”

  There was such nakedness to her question that my heart went out to her. Fashion wasn’t Dinah’s strong point, just as apparently it wasn’t mine. At least not according to Cinnamon.

  “You need to get rid of your purple jeans,” Cinnamon said truthfully. “But in general you look okay.”

  “Really?” Dinah said. “You’re not just saying that? I mean, I know I’ll never look as good as you and Winnie, but . . .”

  “Tell you what,” Cinnamon said. “Next weekend I’ll come over and help you go through your stuff. We’ll find some outfits that make you look fabulous.”

  “Yeah?” Dinah said. I could practically feel her smiling over on her end of the line. Good ol’ Cinnamon, and good ol’ Dinah. I was proud of being friends with them both.

  At school, the Service Council was selling Valentine’s Day carnations outside the cafeteria. You paid now, filled out a strip of paper with your message on it, and then the carnations were delivered to whoever they were supposed to go to on Valentine’s Day morning. Cinnamon and I hovered near the foldout table, watching kids approach, scribble away, and depart. Some did it furtively. Some were bold. The Service Council was raking in oodles of cash.

  “Do you think Lars is going to send you one?” Cinnamon asked.

  “Hush,” I said, shoving her shoulder.

  “And if he does,” she went on, “will it be pink or white?”

  White meant friendship; pink meant love. Which everyone on the planet knew.

  “The question is,” I said, “who’s going to send one to you? Maybe Alex Plotkin? Excuse me—Critter?”

  Cinnamon shuddered. Lately Alex had taken to appearing at Cinnamon’s locker reeking of Old Spice, and yesterday he’d offered her a stick of Juicy Fruit.

  “Maybe he’ll give you your own special countdown to delight,” I said. “Three, two, one . . . kaboom!”

  “Grow up,” Cinnamon said, making me feel unexpectedly rebuffed. What, she could tease me, but I couldn’t tease her? And Alex’s fart countdown was a classic. I knew Dinah would have laughed.

  Cinnamon jabbed me. “Look. Here he comes.”

  “Alex?” I said. “Where?”

  “Lars. Act casual.”

  I spotted Lars with his buddy Bryce, and I straightened my spine. I tried to act not only casual, but sophisticated and breezy and utterly appealing at the same time. I felt strained from the effort, but that was life.

  “Does he see me?” I said through my smile. Because that was the point, for Lars to see me while at the same time seeing the Service Council table, so that his mind could go Bingo! and he’d decide to buy me a carnation.

  “I don’t think so . . . wait! Yes—he definitely does!”

  My cheek muscles felt rubbery. Look pretty, look pretty, I chanted inside my head. I’d even worn a tighter-than-usual shirt, although I don’t think anybody noticed.

  “There you are,” said Dinah, appearing from behind us. “I’ve been searching everywhere!”

  Her presence registered, but I didn’t give her my full attention because Lars and Bryce were coming our way. I let myself glance at him as he approached—like Oh, hi! I’m just now noticing you, just this very second!—and he gave his patented chin jerk. Pleasure tingled through me.

  Dinah grabbed my arm. “I really need to talk.”

  “Later,” I said.

  “It’s about Muffet.”

  “Who’s Muffet?” Cinnamon asked.

  “My cat,” Dinah said.

  Lars and Bryce stopped in front of us.

  “Hey,” Lars said.

  “Hey,” I said. I couldn’t help grinning.

  “Winnie, it’s important,” Dinah said. “The vet said she’s gaining too much weight. We have to put her on a diet, and the only treats she can have are Fishy Yum Yums!”

  Bryce looked at her as if she were from another planet. “What is she talking about?” he asked Lars.

  “My cat,” Dinah said. “The vet says she’s ten pounds overweight.”

  “Your cat’s too fat?” Bryce said. “Dude, her cat’s too fat!”

  I burned a little. Dinah was the type of person who would say things like this, and guys like Bryce would make fun of her. Someone else could have said the very same thing—say, Cinnamon—and it would have been life as normal. Except that Cinnamon wouldn’t have said it. I wished Dinah hadn’t, either.

  “It’s not funny,” Dinah said to Bryce. She turned to me. “You know she doesn’t like Fishy Yum Yums. What am I going to do?”

  “Don’t give her Fishy Yum Yums,” I said.

  Bryce and Lars cracked up, and Dinah turned red. I hadn’t meant it as a betrayal, but I could see how maybe it came across like one.

  “Winnie,” she said. She tugged on my sleeve.

  I didn’t want to go. But I didn’t know how else to handle it. I felt a stab of anger at Dinah; its intensity surprised me.

  “I’ll see you around,” I said to Lars.

  “Yeah, sure,” Lars said.

  “Let’s get some grub,” Bryce said.

  They headed into the cafeteria, sailing past the carnation table without a second glance.

  “Dinah,” Cinnamon scolded. “Your cat’s weight problem is more important than Winnie’s love life?”

  It was exactly what I was thinking. I regarded Dinah stonily.

  “But she’s . . . she has to eat . . .”

  “Please don’t bring up the Fishy Yum Yums,” I said.

  Dinah started to protest, and then the realization hit. Lars. The carnation table. My entire romantic future.

  “Oh my gosh,” she said. “I am so so so so sorry. I guess . . . I wasn’t thinking?”

  “Huh,” Cinnamon said. “You figure?”

  Dinah looked stricken, and I sighed. It was hard to be mad at her, because she never screwed up on purpose. It just came naturally.

  “Winnie?” she said meekly.

  I was mad at her, though. On the inside.

  “Let’s just go eat lunch,” I said without making eye contact. “And you can tell us all about the Fishy Yum Yums.”

  At home I discovered that even Ty had a Valentine’s crush. He was in crush with a girl named Lexi
e, who was in his kindergarten class.

  “She has pretty hair,” Ty told me over a root-beer float. Mom had told me to fix him a healthy after-school snack while she was out doing errands, and I figured this counted. After all, ice cream was chock-full of calcium.

  “And she has pretty teeth,” he said.

  “Unlike Taffy?” I asked.

  Ty made his face into a Taffy-style underbite, probably without even meaning to. “Unlike Taffy,” he said. “But Taffy wants to marry me. I told her no, because I’m already taken.”

  He was five years old and he was “already taken.” Where did he get this stuff?

  “Well, you’ve got plenty of time to figure out who you’re going to marry.” I slurped on my float. “The main thing is to remember to be nice. Okay? You should always be nice to everyone.”

  “Okay,” Ty said. He tilted his glass to get the melty bit. “I had a dream about Lexie. Do you want me to tell it to you?”

  “Sure.”

  “I was at Lexie’s house, and this is what happened. I made a flying jump over her—remember, this is just a dream—and it made her beautiful hair get messed up.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Ty looked at me anxiously. “It was just a dream.”

  “I got that part. Go on.”

  “It did not happen in real life.”

  “Go on.”

  “Her hair came out of her headband, but her mom got it back how it was supposed to be. That’s good, isn’t it?”

  I wanted to hug him. He was such a sweet, great kid. "Yes, Ty, that’s very good. But you shouldn’t jump over her again, ’kay?”

  “It was just a dream!” Ty insisted.

  “If you say so,” I said.

  “Winnie!”

  The phone rang, and I got up and answered. It was Cinnamon.

  “Hold on,” I said to her. “Ty, you want to watch Guts?” Guts was a crazy game show for kids that I’d stumbled onto once in the upper range of our cable channels. Ty was obsessed with it.

  His face lit up. “Yeah!”

  “You can do that while I talk to Cinnamon. I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

  Ty pushed his chair out from the table and scampered off.

  “Hey,” I said to Cinnamon. “I’m back.”

  “What’s Guts?” she asked.