by Patti Kim
I’m running against Jack Martell the jock and Randall Robinson, a regular diner at the all-you-can-achieve restaurant, and the one and only Sydney Stevenson, the captain of the Head Over Hills Step Team.
I strut down the hall, passing vote-for-me posters taped to the walls. I couldn’t buy no real poster boards, so I used the back of leftover wrapping paper, which ended up being easier to cut, carry, and tape to the walls. I found me a fridge box at the dumpster and made a cartoon cutout of myself with big hair, roller skates, one fist on hip, the other holding up a pickax, and a big bubble coming out of my mouth saying my slogan “Mick’s Your Pick!”
My cutout’s standing at the end of the hall. I’m mighty proud as a peacock. I got a good stab at this. Even if I lose, I win, ’cause anyone who’s anyone at this school’s going to know who I am. Hey, there goes Mickey! Aren’t you Mickey? It’s Mickey! I’m not aiming to be popular. Not like that. I’m just aiming not to disappear off the face of this earth, ’cause sometimes I can feel the fade of death and insignificance. It’s like I’m slowly but surely vanishing off and away to the Island of the Invisibles.
I want nothing to do with being invisible.
Look at me! Look at me!
I catwalk like I’m on a runway. Today’s outfit consists of a navy-blue T-shirt and a white skirt I made from an old pillowcase. All’s I had to do was cut open the closed end, and bingo was her name-o, I had me a white skirt like the ones secretaries and stewardesses wear. I finished off the outfit with a red headband and a red belt I fashioned from an onion sack.
As I pass the lockers, the Red Sea of voters parts. I smile and nod. I’m on tip-top of the world. Maybe not just yet, but I’m well on my way, making my dreams come true. Nothing ain’t going to stop me from nothing. Mickey McDonald’s making her mark. As I strut, I feel like sprouting wings, flying high, and flowing through the sky.
Then I feel something that stops me in my tracks.
I freeze.
I can’t take another step.
I can’t move, ’cause if I move, the big blood booger that just gooped out of my Private Regina is going to streak down my legs, and this ain’t the pop of color I was aiming for. This ain’t the flow I was talking about.
Everyone’s moving around me. Voices chatter. Lockers open and shut. Feet patter. Kids laugh. Bell rings. Hall spins. The world blurs.
I got my period?
I got my period.
I got my period!
Why’s it called period? It should be called exclamation point, ’cause that’s what I’m feeling right now, like I should exclaim, “I got my period!” It’s a real headliner of a news flash. I’ve been waiting for this, but now? Not now. Why now? I ain’t prepared. I got no sanitary protection.
This ain’t how I imagined my inauguration into womanhood.
My periodic/exclamatory dream was I’d wake up in the morning to the glorious stains of womanhood on my panties and sheets, and I’d have some precious alone time to gaze upon the stains like they were clouds in the sky. This one looks like a dolphin. This one’s a rosebud. I see me the explosion of fireworks on the Fourth of July. Ain’t that fitting? My own personal declaration of independence.
But my dream has been rudely slashed, and I see Lawrence Elwood stop at my cardboard figure. He laughs, throwing his head back, his hair swooshing like a wave of wishing. He looks down the hall and sees me. Split-second eye contact is all he needs to make his way over here with his head of good hair and a smile that’s reminding me of candles on a birthday cake.
I need to get my behind to a bathroom ASAP. Pressing my knees together, I slide. I want to think I look like I’m gliding, but it probably looks more like hobbling.
Go away, Lawrence Elwood. Go away.
“Hey, Mickey,” he says.
“Hi,” I say with my thighs pressed tight and my back turned to the lockers.
“That’s hilarious.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s a trident reference?”
“Trident? You mean like the gum?”
“Like the myth.”
“What’re you talking about, Lawrence?”
“Could you call me Law?”
“Law?”
“Yeah, it’s short for Lawrence.”
“Like Law as in law-abiding citizen?”
“More like Law as in law of attraction.”
He smiles like he just blew out all his birthday candles in one huff-and-puff.
I’m normally whip quick with my comebacks, but I’m flustered. Heat’s rising from my chest, running up my neck and setting my cheeks on fire. Lawrence Elwood is flirting with me, and I got nothing. With burnt brain cells, I blurt out, “Well, whoop-de-do, Larry. I hope you’re attracted to voting for me ’cause Mick’s your pick.”
I shimmy away from him faster than a cockroach seeing light.
I dodge bodies, hurrying to the bathroom.
I see the top of Sun Joo’s head. I reach over, grab her arm, pull her to me, and tell her I got me an emergency and haul her to the bathroom with me.
When we finally make it there, I show her my backside and ask, “See anything?”
“Oh no,” Sun Joo says, covering her mouth and stepping away from me like I got some contagious disease.
“What?”
“You have the menses.”
“The men what?”
“You not know?”
“Not know what?”
“Your mother not say?”
“Say what?”
“About the menses.”
“Menseh? What in tarnation is menseh? Are you talking about menstruation? Is that what you call it? No one calls it that around here. It’s lady business or that time of month or Aunt Flo, have your pick, but no one says ‘menstruation’ or ‘menses,’ ’cause guess what—men don’t see nothing.”
That word gets me started on a rant about why in tarnation the word “men” is in a thing that’s all about being a woman. It should be called womenstruation. But why in tarnation is the word “man” in the word “woman”? And why in tarnation is “male” in “female”? What’s that all about? They got no business. They want in on everything. Putting their names and noses in places they don’t belong. Don’t even get me started.
While I’m ranting, Sun Joo covers her eyes and turns her back to me, trying to give me my privacy.
“I don’t care. I don’t need privacy. What I need right now is a pad. You got a pad?” I ask.
She unzips the front pocket on her backpack, pulls out a Care Bear pouch, unzips that, pulls out another pouch, unzips that, pulls out another pouch. It’s like a Russian doll of pouches. Finally, she pulls out a pad all wrapped in pink plastic decorated with flowers. She holds it up like it’s some treasure she dug up out of the ground and hands it to me.
“You, Sun Joo Moon, are my sunshine,” I say, hurrying into a stall.
While I’m taking care of my lady business, I sing, “ ‘You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you’—oh my Lord of Lords, Sun Joo, this pad’s got wings. I think this baby’s going to fly. You ever see that commercial? All them pretty women look so happy to be on the rag—‘Please don’t take my sunshine away.’ ”
As I step out of the stall, I ask, “You know that song?”
Sun Joo takes her sweater off and starts wrapping it around my waist to cover the stain on my skirt.
“I ain’t wearing this. It messes up my outfit. This thing’s so small. What is it, like newborn size? Besides, I got nothing to hide. I ain’t ashamed of my period,” I say.
“Nooooooooo,” she says, shaking her head.
“Yeeeesssss,” I say, nodding my head.
“No, this not good for you.”
“Listen up, Sun Joo. From the bottom of my heart of hearts, I truly am grateful for all your help. You saved my butt, but I do things my way, and hiding my womanly stains ain’t the Mickey way. This here’s a natural bodily function for every woman. News f
lash! This here’s a miracle. Without it, we can’t have no babies. Without it, all of humanity goes to extinction. So I see this here as a point of pride. Why should I hide? Why should I be ashamed? You getting what I’m saying?”
“But it look like you poo-poo,” she says.
“Oh. It does?”
“No one vote for you like this.”
“You think so?”
“No one want President Poo-Poo.”
“Well, I guess that’s a good point.”
“Take this. Take this out,” she orders, untucking my T-shirt from my pillowcase skirt. She pulls the shirt down, turns me around, and says, “Too short. You have jacket?”
“No.”
“Why you wearing white today?”
I check my butt out in the mirror. It does look more like poo than blood.
“Hey, it kinda looks like South America, don’t it?” I say.
Sun Joo turns my skirt around this way and that, inspecting me up, down, and side to side, then claps her hands with an excitement I never seen coming from Her Highness Shyness, and announces, “I know! I solve! I have the perfect idea!”
She pushes me back into the stall, telling me to take my skirt off and give it to her. I can’t say no. I can’t say wait. She’s pushy like some used-car salesman. This a side of her I ain’t ever seen before. I hand her my skirt under the stall door. She snatches it. Next thing I hear is rummaging. I peek through the crack. Sun Joo’s opening up one of her magical pouches. She’s getting something, but I can’t tell what.
“Hey, Sun Joo? What you up to over there? Might I kindly remind you that that there’s my property, and I got rights, and I should most certainly have a say, if not the say, in how you planning to fix this situation? I sure do hope you ain’t aiming to wash my article of clothing, ’cause I sure as heaven ain’t going to wear a wet skirt all over school. What’s worse? People thinking you got a smudge of poo on your butt or people thinking you peed yourself? If you ask me—”
“Be quiet.”
“Be what? Are you telling me to shut up?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I never. Excuse me, little missy Moon, this here’s a hostage situation. I want my skirt back. How do I know you ain’t going to just walk out of here and abandon me and leave me stuck in this here stall for the rest of my life all alone and destitute without food and clothing. See what you done now? You got me thinking about my daddy and what—”
My skirt comes flying over the stall door. I shut up and catch it. I hold it up. I gasp like I just walked in on my surprise birthday party. Surprise! I can’t breathe ’cause what my friend’s done for me just takes my breath away.
“Oh my Lord of Lords, Sun Joo! This here’s a work of art.”
We strut down the hall. Well, I don’t know if Sun Joo’s walk can be considered strutting, but she ain’t staring down at the floor all full of the trembles. She throws her rainbow backpack of magical pouches over one shoulder and walks like she belongs, like she got rights, like she’s proud of what she’s done to my skirt.
She whipped up the whole wide world.
With whatever Magic Markers and pens and paints and pastels she had stashed in one of her pouches, she turned that stain into South America, drawing around it a globe of the world: North America, a chunk of Greenland, some Africa, a piece of Europe and the beautiful oceans, Pacific and Atlantic, done in presidential blue.
It got me humming that tune about how God’s got the whole world in his hands, but truth be told, I got the whole world on my right hip.
ten
Instead of the usual tube socks I wear with my roller skates, I’m wearing Ma’s Sheer Energy knee-highs brought to you by L’eggs ’cause my feet wouldn’t slip in. My toes are squished. I’m praying the seams don’t bust when Principal Farmer calls my name and I got to stand up and roll over to the podium to give my vote-for-me speech in front of the entire school.
I’m nervous.
It’s like I got billions of butterflies in my gut, and if I open my mouth, they’re going to come flying out. Maybe that’s just what I need, my turn to open my mouth, my turn to speak and let the butterflies out.
I silently practice my speech. The sweat on my hands makes my note cards damp and soft, smudging up my words.
Jack Martell’s doing the talking right now. He got on his basketball outfit—a pair of shorts and a jersey tank top with MARTELL and the number “13” on his back. It takes a heap of nerves to wear unlucky thirteen with such joy and pride. It’s like he’s too strong for bad luck. He wears it like a dare. Me, on the other hand, don’t think too highly of thirteen. I’m hanging on to twelve for as long as I can. Two more months and it’s bye-bye to my childhood. Hello to the teen scene. This must be what bittersweet feels like, winning and losing at the same time.
Ain’t nothing going to be simple no more. It used to be that I didn’t give half a hoot about what other people thought of me. Caring about how others saw me didn’t even cross my mind. I did as I was led by none other than myself. If I felt like dancing, I danced. If I felt like singing, I sang. If I felt like skipping to my Lou, I skipped. Now I try hard not to care. That trying-hard part means I do mind. I do care what they think of me. It’s not innocent no more.
Jack says something about wanting more dances, more soda machines, free fries on Fridays, and a longer lunch period, which I think is a horrible idea for those folks who don’t got no friends and no food and nowhere to go. I’d say open up the library or the art room or some other classroom that don’t make them feel like gum stuck on a shoe when they walk in.
Then he talks about how he plays ball. He’s on a team. He’s good at working together. He wants to work with us to make this the best year.
“For the win!” he shouts, and holds up his open hands. Someone in the audience throws him a basketball. He catches it and spins it on his finger.
Kids go wild.
Jack leans into the mic, says, “Vote for Jack. He’s got your back,” and throws the ball into the audience.
Everyone gasps. Who’s going to catch it?
My feet are numb. Blood ain’t circulating past my ankles.
Sydney Stevenson is up next. She’s wearing her step outfit. Her hair is amazing. I want her hair. It’s dark brown, long, wavy, full of body, sheen, and shine. It’s what I call wig perfect. She could sell shampoo.
She sashays to the podium, pulls the mic out of the stand, and says, “While Jack’s busy catching balls, I’m going to tear down walls. Walls that divide. Walls that blind. Walls blocking minds. Here’s the real catch. I’m your match. With President Stevenson, we, Lions, will be flying.”
She drops the mic and does a backflip, finishing with the splits. Ouch. But, oh my Lord of Lords, I want to vote for her so bad. I crazy applaud. I’d stand, too, but my feet are too numb.
While Randall Robinson gets called to the podium, I loosen my laces. I try to wiggle my toes, but they ain’t budging. I gotta get these off, or I’m going to end up inch-worming my way to the mic.
I grab my left skate and pull. Nothing. I pull again. Nothing. It’s stuck on my foot like a block of cement. Grabbing the wheels, I pull hard like I’m tugging on the horns of a bull eyeing Little Red Riding Hood. Oh no you don’t. The skate pops off. My foot’s finally free, and so is the skate.
It twirls in the air like a juggler’s bowling pin.
I spring out of my metal folding chair so fast and hard it topples back and shuts, clanking onto the floor. My note cards fly out of my hands. I roll on the one skate still on my foot. I fall flat on my belly. I slide across the stage like I’m stealing home for the win. I put my hand out. The runaway skate falls into my palm.
What a catch.
Kids make a ruckus.
This all happens just in time for Randall Robinson to reach the podium, turn to see me sprawled across the stage, and say into the mic, “Thank you for the introduction.”
“Ladies and gents, Randall Robinson,” I say.
&n
bsp; Kids laugh.
I stand up, dust myself off, hold my head high, and hobble back with presidential dignity. I open my chair and take a seat.
“Ready to roll?” Randall says.
Kids applaud.
He swiped my opening line. My aim was to skate, spin, and twirl to the podium and ask the audience if we was ready to roll. What in tarnation am I going to say now? My sorry soggy note cards are scattered all across who knows where down there beneath the stage, and I gotta come up with a speech.
Randall’s real serious. He wears his Easter Sunday best—a navy suit, a white shirt, and a necktie covered in red, white, and blue candy-cane stripes. He ain’t just running to be president of a middle school. This here’s the practice run to rule the country someday. Randall talks all grown-up. He uses big words like “representation,” “constituent,” “dissatisfaction,” “inalienable rights,” blah, blah, blah. I guess it’s impressive and all, but I’m fighting the yawns. He’s talking about how he got credentials up the wazoo ’cause he makes all As on his report cards, runs the newspaper, runs the fastest mile, blah, blah, blah. Randall’s a big bore. Kids must think so too ’cause there’s so much restless mumble-jumble going on out there that Vice Principal Graves has to take the mic.
“Settle. Settle,” he says.
Makes me think of them early Pilgrim settlers and how Thanksgiving’s around the corner. Wonder how things’ll play out this year with Daddy gone and all. Ma usually cooked up a storm. Daddy usually made it home to eat with us.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Wilma.
Wilma who?
Wilma cook a turkey this year?
“Settle down!” Graves howls, his spit spraying the podium, his lips touching all over the mic. Yuck. Pass the Lysol.
“Thank you, Vice Principal Graves. In conclusion, I am the best man for the job. I am the most qualified. If voted your president, I promise to serve and represent Landover Hills with the dignity, commitment, and hard work you deserve. Vote for me,” he says.