Funny Girl

by Betsy Bird

  “What are you guys doing here?” she asked her parents.

  Riley’s father winked at her. “Just wanted to see how Deirdre’s date went.”

  “Deirdre’s on a date?” Riley squealed.

  Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, it’s not really a date,” she said. “Just two kids drinking decaf.”

  At the sink, Simon’s dad turned off the disposal. “What the heck is in here?” he asked, stuffing his hand inside the sink.

  At the counter, Riley’s best friend had turned a putrid shade of green. And soon Riley knew why.

  When Simon’s father pulled his arm from the sink with a sickening schloooook! there was something dangling from the end of his index finger.

  Something pink.

  Something ripped, and wet, too.

  It had been pooped on, chewed up, glued together, stuffed down a garbage chute, stuck to a tennis racket, and run through a garbage disposal.

  But it was still, somehow, unmistakably, a bra.

  Riley groaned. Matthew hooted. Simon grew even more broccoli-green. “Oh, my,” declared Riley’s dad.

  And that was precisely when Deirdre walked through the door, hand in hand with Logan.

  Riley realized two things then, both at once.

  The first thing was that her sister was not a werewolf. Gazing dreamily as she was at the side of Logan’s face, Deirdre looked happy. Even happier than she had when she’d scored that third Yahtzee. It was a nice look for her. Very unwerewolfy.

  The second thing Riley realized was that when Deirdre and Logan turned—in one split second, they were about to do it—they would see the bra. And Logan would know just from the expression on Deirdre’s face that it was hers, and Deirdre wouldn’t look so happy anymore. Riley wouldn’t even care when she got murdered after that, because she’d deserve it for mortifying her unwerewolf sister so badly.

  And so, just as Deirdre and Logan turned toward the bra, Riley did the only thing she could think to do.

  “HEY, EVERYONE!” she hollered. “THAT’S MY UNDERWEAR!” And then she snatched the bra right out of Simon’s father’s hand and dashed out the door, down the hall, and up five flights to her own apartment. When she got there, she flushed the bra down the toilet.

  It went right down.

  Riley plopped herself on her bed and tugged her walkie-talkie out of her pocket. She wanted to ask Simon what had happened after she’d left. She wanted to ask if he thought Deirdre would ever speak to her again. But she didn’t have the heart to press the button.

  * * *

  Riley had been lying on her bed for a good forty minutes when the walkie squawked to life beside her.

  “You push that one,” came Simon’s voice from the other end. “And you say, ‘Over,’ or something.”

  “Are you ever going to learn how to use this thing?” Riley asked, snatching up the walkie. “Over.”

  But it wasn’t Simon who answered her.

  “Riley?”

  It was Deirdre.

  Riley sat up on her bed. “Yeah?” she said into the walkie. “Over.”

  There was a pause, and then another squawk.

  “Want to play Yahtzee?” Deirdre asked.

  Just then, Riley felt a bit like a werewolf who had seen a full moon for the first time—like the world was a wonderful place, brighter than she’d ever imagined. “Sure,” she told her sister. And then she smiled. “Over and out.”

  Fleamail Pawed-cast

  By Deborah Underwood

  Good morning! I’m Bella . . .

  And I’m Rover.

  Welcome to Bella and Rover’s first-ever call-in pawed-cast!

  Who do we have on the line with us today?

  I’m Teeny.

  I’m Tiny.

  We are fighting fish and we fight all the time.

  No we don’t.

  Yes we do. And we want to stop.

  No we don’t.

  Yes we do.

  No we don’t . . . actually, we do. It’s exhausting.

  Can you help us?

  Hi! Bella here. I understand. Fighting can be quite draining. You should—

  Hey. Why is it always Bella and Rover? Why not Rover and Bella?

  Because I’m a cat.

  Why should cats be first?

  Okay. It’s alphabetical. B comes before R.

  That’s not fair!

  Yes it is!

  No it isn’t!

  Yes it is!

  Wow. Teeny, do we sound like that when we fight?

  They’re ridiculous! I don’t want to be ridiculous!

  Me neither. Hey—want to swim over and check out the castle?

  Sure. Friends?

  Friends!

  Yes it is!

  No it isn’t! . . . have they hung up yet?

  Yup. High-five-paws! We rock!

  Hey. Why is your name always first?

  That’s all we have time for today. Tune in next week to Bella and Rover!

  Rover and Bella.

  Bella and Rover.

  How to Play Imaginary Games

  By Leila Sales

  How to Play Disney Princesses

  Necessary materials:

  A large bed.

  Game setup: Stand on the end of the large bed.

  Start play by pricking your finger on a spindle, or taking a bite of a poisoned apple—one or the other, depending on your hair color.

  Step two: Faint backward onto the bed as dramatically as possible.

  Repeat steps one and two indefinitely.

  How to Determine the Winner of This Game: The winner is you, unless you break your parents’ bed, in which case the winner is Maleficent.

  How to Play Orphanage

  Necessary materials:

  A book of baby names.

  Paper and pencil.

  Bread and water.Game setup: Populate your orphanage by going through the baby name book and selecting as many names as you want. An orphan named Annie is obviously a good choice. You could also have identical triplet orphans named Cora, Coral, and Corinne. Or identical quintuplet orphans named Larissa, Clarissa, Marissa, Melissa, and Alyssa. These are just examples. Write down all your orphans’ names so you don’t forget them. Draw small portraits of each of them, making sure they all have sad eyes. Some may also have courage evident in their faces. Those are the ones who still pathetically cling to dreams of a better life.

  Start play by pretending to be all the orphans. Not all at once—that would be weird. Alternate among them. Do some thankless chores assigned to you by the cruel matron, who threatens to take away the one memento your parents left you should you disobey. Try to stage an escape: hide in your closet until the matron has stepped outside for a cigarette (obviously Matron is a smoker), then run as though your life depends on it.

  Step two: When it’s lunchtime at the orphanage, ask your parents to give you a plate of bread and a glass of water. This is all you get to eat. Even if they offer you Oreos or ants on a log. Say no. SAY NO. THAT IS THE RULE OF THE GAME. ARE WE PLAYING THIS GAME, OR ARE WE JUST HANGING OUT AND EATING SNACKS?

  The game ends when all the orphans die from consumption.

  How to Determine the Winner of This Game: Anyone left alive is the winner.

  How to Play Capture

  Necessary materials:

  A number of strawberry baskets linked together with yarn.

  A bunch of small, vulnerable-looking things, like plastic ponies.

  A dark evil inside of you.

  Start play by having your small, vulnerable items hanging out and enjoying their day. Maybe they are swimming in the pool of your cat’s water bowl, or maybe they are getting their hair braided at the beauty salon in your bathroom. Just make sure you establish that it is a great, relaxing day to belong to a community of small, vulnera
ble things. What could ever go wrong in such a dreamland?

  Step two: The Bad Guy arrives. You don’t need an actual tangible Bad Guy. Like, if you have a giant evil-looking stuffed animal, that’s great, but otherwise the Bad Guy can just be an unseen and overpowering force. The Bad Guy is you, technically speaking, but don’t think too hard about that because that is very existential.

  The Bad Guy brings with him a monorail bound for one destination only: prison camp. The monorail is a long chain of strawberry baskets, each of which is perfectly sized for holding one family of plastic objects. Load them all in. They cannot bring their beauty salon supplies with them. There is no swimming pool where they are going.

  Drag them down the hall in the strawberry basket train. Have them weep audibly. Bonus move: Some of them try to stage an escape. It doesn’t work, of course. You can’t escape the Bad Guy. These foolhardy plastic souls go tumbling down the stairs to the foyer, where hours later your father will step on them with bare feet and yell at you.

  Stop play when the train reaches its prison camp destination: your mother’s study. Everyone is crowded into little jail cells on your mother’s bookcase. Life as they knew it is now over. Abandon them, just as they have abandoned all hope. Go play with something else. Let your mother clean them up later.

  How to Determine the Winner of This Game: There are no winners.

  Great Expectations

  By Christine Mari Inzer

  A Public Service Announcement About Your Period

  from Sarah T. Wrigley, Age 12¾

  By Libba Bray

  Dear Friends,

  Sarah T. Wrigley here, Period Protocol Expert of Harry Truman Middle School. Today I’m going to talk to you about your period.

  Maybe you’ve just started your period. Maybe you’re still a ways off and wondering what all the fuss is about. Maybe you’re not sure who to talk to about it. Or maybe you’re afraid people will act all weird and freak you out if you do talk about it. (Oh, hi, Mom!)

  Well, I started my period three months ago, so I am practically an expert on the subject. Sure, I suppose I could tell you about how your body works and all that stuff. But that’s what the school nurse and those little movies they make you watch are for. Me? I’m here to help with the stuff nobody tells you. Like what happens if Caleb Cooper pours apple juice all over your tampon art project. Think of me as your Period President and this is my Period Public Service Announcement.

  You’re welcome.

  1. Your Grown-Ups Might Get Weird.

  Prepare yourselves: When you get your first period, your grown-ups get super weird.

  Take my mom, for example. When I told her I’d started (which I knew because there was a streak of blood in my new undies—ugh, thanks, universe. Why not the old undies?), she gave me a hug like we were in one of those TV commercials where people are so super happy that their allergies are fixed that they can’t stop smiling while walking the dog.

  Then she handed me an envelope. Was it a fro-yo gift card? Was it money? Money! Like a period allowance! Side note: Friends, when I am the President of Periods, I am so establishing a first-period cash fund—fifty bucks to spend any way you want. And free frozen yogurt.

  Spoiler alert: It was a greeting card. On the front, there was a glittery unicorn prancing under a shiny rainbow that spelled out “Congratulations!” I spent ten whole minutes trying to figure out what unicorns and rainbows had to do with getting your period. Let me save you the trouble: There is no connection that I can see. My mom needs professional help.

  I said, “Mom. Why is there a sparkly, prancing unicorn on my weird period greeting card? Is it like a My Little Pony thing? Is the glitter unicorn the official mascot of our periods now? Because I am seriously freaked out by this. Look at its eyes, Mom. They aren’t right.” Seriously, it had the eyes of a killer. I had to bury that card in my sock drawer.

  Mom got weepy. “I just wanted to mark this passage. You’re a woman now, honey.”

  I performed some anti-hug maneuvers. “No, Mom. I’m not. I’m, like, twelve and a half? I can’t even drive. You won’t even let me watch Super Housewives.”

  “That show is inappropriate for a seventh grader,” Mom said.

  “I’m pretty sure they have lots of periods on that show. It would be educational,” I tried.

  BIG MISTAKE!

  I did NOT get to watch Super Housewives. Instead, Mom made me watch a period-explaining YouTube video while my little brother ran back and forth shouting, “Fallopian tubes! Ovaries! Uterus!” which, PS, he was still shouting when we went to the grocery store later.

  I am not okay with that.

  So be ready: Tell your grown-ups the only thing you need to mark your special day is money. And do NOT ask if you can see Super Housewives or you’ll end up watching period videos with your little brother. You’ve been warned.

  2. Tampons Are Not Building Blocks. Pads Are Not Flower Arrangements.

  In second grade, my friend Chloe thought that tampons were some kind of new soft building blocks. For her art project, she built an entire replica of the Acropolis from a box of tampons she found under the sink in her mom’s bathroom. All those Greek columns? Tampons.

  It was pretty rad. Not as rad as our teacher Mrs. Jackson’s face as she tried to figure out what to say besides, “Ummm . . . wow.”

  That’s when Caleb Cooper poured his apple juice all over it to see what would happen. He has serious impulse issues. Honestly, he should be barred from all liquids. Turns out tampons really are super absorbent! Chloe’s Acropolis ballooned into a little tampon sausage house. You couldn’t even see the door anymore. I felt bad for the Fisher Price Little People trapped inside. Their eyes showed real fear, like, “Wait a minute! This is so not the Happy Times Ice Cream Shoppe we were promised!” We had to use the Jaws of Life (Mrs. Jackson’s safety scissors) to cut them out. I’m pretty sure those Little People still have toy nightmares.

  But I can understand why Chloe made her mistake. Because tampons and maxi-/mini-pads come in pastel boxes that are covered in hearts or flowers or stars. It’s like the unicorn all over again: What do our periods have to do with Valentine’s Day and a florist’s shop?

  When I am the President of Periods, I’m going to design cool boxes: Skulls. Jet Packs. Wonder Woman. Bikes. Maybe some polar bears because I really love polar bears. Pizza. An octopus wearing a monocle. I mean, if you could choose between a weird pastel flower or an octopus wearing a monocle, which would you choose? Please. That’s not even a question.

  3. Own It!

  Sometimes, people try to make you feel embarrassed about having your period. Like it’s an FBI-level secret covered in girl cooties. That’s bananapants! Having your period’s just a natural part of growing up. Like, when boys’ voices get deeper, nobody says to them, “Psst! Boys: you might want to keep this private.”

  We’ve been having periods for, like, a GAJILLION YEARS. Get over it.

  Now let me tell you about Alana Robinson. Last year, when she got her period, she formed a club with her three best friends called The Period Posse. One week out of the month, they wear these cool red satin jackets, and when the four of them walk down the hall of Harry Truman Middle School like a band of menstruating superheroes? I’m talking wind-machine awesome. You can absolutely start a club or make jackets or come up with your own dance moves—“We call this move ‘The Flow’!” Make it a party if you want. Own it.

  4. Try Giving Your Period a Nickname.

  Did you know there are lots of fun nicknames for having your period? Aunt Flo. The Red Baron. Crimson tide. That time of the month. Riding the bus. Having a visitor. Peddling the unicycle. The Dot. Punctuation time. It’s a girl week. Hosting the Uterus Dance Club. Paddling the canoe. Old Faithful. I call mine Rhiannon. Like, “Oh, I’m hanging out with Rhiannon this week.” Like I’ve got a rock star cousin who comes to visit once a mo
nth. You can call yours anything you want. Sarah T. Wrigley, for example. I would be honored to be the nickname of your monthly.

  5. Accidents Will Happen.

  What happens if you bleed through your jeans? Well, you could punch your fist in the air and say, “That’s right! I got my period. LIKE A BOSS! I’m outta here. Later, suckers,” on your way to the bathroom. You could cause a distraction—“OMG, is that K-pop sensation Too Much Love out on the lawn of our school?”—while you make a run for it. Or you could keep a sweater with you to wrap around your waist. You think Alana Robinson came up with red satin jackets on a whim? Nope. That was a genius plan. I want to grow up to be Alana Robinson. Maybe she can be my VP of Periods.

  5. Don’t Worry.

  Look, maybe you’ve already started. Maybe your friends have all hopped the pink bus and you’re afraid you won’t get to board. Or maybe there’s a Megan Wilson at your school who likes to brag-moan, “Oh my gosh, y’all, I am soooo crampy!” like having your period is an Olympic sport and she’s going for the gold. Nobody’s impressed, Megan. Also, all that “Oh, you’re a woman now?” Whatever, part two.

  (Confession: From time to time, I still drag out my old Barbies because I miss them. Last week, Barbie got her period. Skipper tried to hug her. Barbie said no. Then she rode her new bike.)

  As your period guru, I can promise you—it’s all good.

  Except for glitter unicorns. That’s just messed up, Mom.

  Wishing you the best period ever!

  Sincerely,

  Your Period President,

  Sarah T. Wrigley, Age 12¾

  The Smart Girl’s Guide to the Chinese Zodiac

  By Lenore Look

  In China, individual birth dates are not as important as the year in which you were born. And if you want to know someone’s age, you don’t ask how old they are, but the animal sign in which they were born.