Words That Start With B

by Vikki VanSickle

  “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.

  Bluff

  “Clarissa? It’s for you.”

  I must have fallen asleep, because suddenly Denise is at the door holding the phone. I blink and sit up quickly. My stomach hurts and I remember what I’m doing here, home, asleep in the middle of the afternoon, although now it’s pretty dark outside. The alarm clock says it’s ten past six. I can’t believe I’ve slept that long. The cramps are pretty terrible, although the ache in my stomach might also have something to do with the two granola bars and bag of chips I ate earlier. I rub the sleep from my eyes and shake my head to wake up a little.

  “Hello?” I say, yawning into the phone.

  “Hi, Clarissa, it’s Mattie.”

  I’m wide awake now. I was expecting to hear Benji’s voice.

  “Oh. Mattie. Hi.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  Mattie’s voice is so loud I’m sure Denise can hear it fro
m the doorway, where she’s standing, frowning at me, like she’s trying to figure out what to do with a sick child. I turn away from her, toward the window.

  “Okay,” I mumble. “My head hurts a little.”

  “Are the cramps bad?” she asks, practically yelling into the phone. Mattie never could take a hint. I’m afraid to look at Denise, in case she heard.

  “They’re okay. Like I said, it’s my head that hurts. Everything’s just so loud.”

  Mattie is skeptical. “I’ve never heard of that symptom before,” she says.

  “Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?”

  The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “I mean, you’re not the one with the — well, you know. But you will know, someday. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” says Mattie. “Mood swings are very common during the menstrual period.”

  “Oh, right.” I clench my teeth to keep anything else from flying out of my mouth.

  “Do you have any questions about the homework?” Mattie asks brightly.

  “What homework?” I ask.

  “Benji said he was going to bring over your homework,” Mattie says. She’s getting that bossy tone in her voice, the one she gets when someone hasn’t lived up to the Mattie Cohen standard. It makes me want to defend him.

  “I was asleep all afternoon, so maybe he did come by and I didn’t hear the bell,” I say.

  “Oh. Well, if you have any questions or if he doesn’t bring it over by eight, call me and I’ll go over it with you.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” I say. I try to sound enthusiastic, even though there is no way I will call her to do homework over the phone.

  “Oh, don’t thank me, it’s the least I can do,” says Mattie. She sounds very pleased with herself. “Now you should get back to bed! Are you using the hot water bottle?”

  Cripes, that Mattie is bossy.

  “Yes,” I lie. “It’s great!”

  I can practically hear her beaming through the telephone.

  “I told you! See you tomorrow, Clarissa.”

  “Bye, Mattie.”

  When I hang up and roll over, Denise is still in the doorway. Except now she’s holding the open box of extra-long Kotex with wings. I must have left it on the floor of the bathroom. I feel my cheeks getting hot and I burrow further into the blankets. Maybe if I play sick she’ll go away. She doesn’t.

  “What’s this? Is this why you came home from school today?” she asks, shaking the Kotex box.

  I nod, burrowing a little further into the blankets.

  “And my stomach hurt,” I add.

  “Why didn’t you—” but Denise stops mid-sentence. I know what she was about to say. Why didn’t I tell her the truth? And it’s because I didn’t want to talk to her. She shouldn’t be the one here right now. I look down at the bed and pick at the hairy tufts of the bedspread. When I was little I thought they looked like fat pink caterpillars. That seems like a long time ago. Denise lets out a big sigh and perches at the end of my bed.

  “God, I wish your mother was here,” she says.

  “Me, too.”

  Denise looks at me like maybe she wants to hug me but we’ve never really been huggy-huggy, Denise and I. Instead, she heaves one of her famous world-weary sighs and stares at the Kotex box in her hands.

  “Do you have any questions?” she mumbles.

  I can’t believe it. For once in her life she doesn’t know what to say. I think about what a miracle this is, and if only Benji were here to see it. Then I remember that everything is different now, and where would I even start to tell him all this? It’s probably better he doesn’t know. He can be very queasy.

  I shrug.

  “We pretty much covered it in health,” I say. Which is partly true. Last year they sent all the girls to the art room to watch videos and draw diagrams of unspeakably embarrassing body parts. In none of the videos did it talk about what a cramp would feel like, or say that the blood can be more brownish than red, or mention that it’s not just your stomach but sometimes your whole body that kind of aches.

  “You know, when I was your age I didn’t have sex ed or women’s health or whatever the schools are calling it now. They pretty much sat us down and told us if we French-kissed a boy we would get pregnant.”

  I am absolutely certain this is not the sort of birds and bees talk my mother would approve of. Denise seems to think so, too, because she keeps twiddling her ring round her finger and jiggling her foot.

  “I’m sure your mother would put it better than me,” she says. Then something happens and Denise snaps out of her jittery mode and gets a glint in her eye.

  “Hey, why don’t we ask her?” she says.

  I sit up.

  “You mean call her?”

  Denise jumps up and starts pacing the room, a big horsey smile spreading over her face.

  “Better. Do you have any tests tomorrow? Anything important?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Do you think you feel up to a little road trip?”

  My heart leaps.

  “You mean skip school?”

  “One little day won’t hurt you. Lord knows I skipped my fair share of classes and I turned out all right.”

  I open my mouth to say otherwise but Denise holds up her hand and stops me.

  “Try to restrain yourself, Clarissa. I know it’s difficult, but I’m doing something nice for you.”

  “It’s kind of for you, too.” I point out.

  “Well, yes it is, but it’s still a damn nice thing to do. So pack your bag, kiddo. We’re going to see your mama.”

  Breakaway

  In half an hour I am packed and sitting in the front seat of Denise’s car, clutching a pillow on my lap and grinning from ear to ear. Denise is running around the house making last minute calls and looking for her toothbrush. My insides are so jittery I don’t think I can stand just sitting here in the driveway much longer. How long does it take to find a toothbrush? I lean on the horn. Finally the lights in the house go out and Denise comes running down the stairs, huffing and puffing, coat open and flapping around her.

  She opens the back door and throws her bags in the back. “I’m coming, Clarissa — keep your pants on.”

  She slides into the driver’s seat. “Here, take my purse,” she says between big gasps of air.

  “You really should quit smoking,” I say.

  “Don’t. Push. It,” she wheezes, but she’s smiling like nothing can put her in a bad mood. “If you open the inside pocket you’ll find a pack of gum,” she says. “Do me a favour and get me a piece, will you? You take one, too.”

  “But it’s Nicorette gum,” I say.

  “Darn, I thought I had the real stuff in there. Sorry, kiddo, there might be a mint or something for you.”

  There isn’t. But I don’t mind. In ninety minutes I will be seeing my mother.

  In all the excitement I never got a chance to call Benji, but as we pull out of the driveway I see the curtains in his front window move. Guilt gnaws at my stomach when I remember how I left school suddenly, never called him to explain, and am now making a secret getaway in the night with one of my least favourite people. But sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I know he’ll understand.

  ***

  Denise is a lot more fun in the car than I thought she would be. First of all, unlike my mother, Denise thinks country music is for old folks and rednecks. “And we, Clarissa, are not rednecks. And, despite what you may think, I am not all that old, either.” This means we get to listen to the top eight at eight on the regular radio station. Denise knows all the words to every song, and I’m in such a good mood it doesn’t even bother me when she sings along. Soon, I’m singing along at the top of my lungs and I don’t care what I look like or who can hear me, because it feels great.

  “Sing it, girl,” Denise yells, and she opens the window so I can shout out the song as we fly down the highway into the dark, endless night. The cool wind
whips the hair around my face and I feel like we’re in a movie. I haven’t felt this good in a long time.

  ***

  We make one stop along the way at a gas station. Denise gives the attendant a twenty and tells him to “Fill ’er up.” Then she winks at him, even though he is young enough to be her son. I roll my eyes but I am in too good a mood to say anything else, especially when Denise gives me $10 and tells me to pick out some provisions.

  Besides the woman behind the cash, who doesn’t even look up when I enter, I am the only one in the store. The lights are so bright they hurt my eyes. I scan the shelves for Delaney standards, like Miss Vickie’s chips, peanut M&M’s and Rainbow Twizzlers. I think about getting a 2-litre bottle of Coke but decide that ginger ale is better for Mom, who is probably feeling sick from the chemo. With my arms full of goodies, I saunter up to the cash register.

  “Going on a diet?” the cashier asks. She laughs at her own joke, her enormous bosom shaking under her ketchup-red and mustard-yellow gas-station uniform shirt. Her hair is brassy yellow with dark roots and is so full of gel it looks like she just got out of the shower. I resist the urge to snort.

  When I don’t answer, she asks me, “Going on a road trip?”

  I shrug like it’s no big deal or maybe none of her business, which it isn’t.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, have a good time.”

  And because I am in such a good mood, I leave a whole toonie in the tip cup, just to show her what a good person I am and how I am above the likes of her. Besides, it’s Denise’s money.

  ***

  When we reach London my stomach seizes up with excitement, or maybe it’s nerves. I can’t tell which. Denise unfolds the map and spreads it out over the steering wheel. She taps it with a finger and reads the street names aloud to herself.

  “Hoyle. Dunmore—”

  “Did you call and tell her we were coming?” I ask.

  “Nope,” Denise says. “I can’t wait to see the look on her face. But don’t worry, I called the nurse, and she says she’s doing good today. She’ll be happy to have some surprise visitors. Wellington. Ah, Wellington. Here we are.”