“That day at the Christmas-tree lot . . .” I started.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think that Lars . . . did he . . . I mean, how exactly did he end up there?”
“Did he come to see you, you mean?” Cinnamon said. “Is that what you're asking?”
It sounded so naked out in the air like that.
“Never mind,” I said.
“Yes, Winnie, Lars came to see you. I told him to.”
She
told
him to? I scrunched my toes and tried not to hyperventilate.
“Why are you spazzing?” she said. “He likes you, okay?”
I was pretty much ready to evaporate and not be there anymore. But I was thrilled, too.
“Really?” I said.
She laughed. “Really.”
The tree gazed at us benevolently. The lights twinkled and shone.
On Christmas morning, I ran with Ty to wake up Mom and Dad. Sandra trailed behind in her sweats and oversized T-shirt.
“It's six A.M.,” she griped. “I can't believe we're up this early on a holiday.”
But she was complaining for the sake of complaining. I knew she was as excited as we were.
Downstairs, we spilled the contents of our stockings onto the sofa. Along with other stuff, my stocking held a bottle of gold nail polish and a pair of silky purple underwear. Sandra got underwear, too. Hers were tiger striped.
And then came the actual presents. I got an iPod from Mom and Dad, which was super-duper cool, and a Dr Pepper shirt from Ty, because he knew Dr Pepper was my favorite drink. And because once he'd eaten my giant Dr Pepper Lip-Smacker, so he owed me. From Sandra, I got pj's from Old Navy.
It made me so happy, all the Christmas-ness in the air. I loved my family. I loved my presents. I loved everything in the whole wide world. I thought of Dinah and Cinnamon, and I hoped they were having good Christmases, too. Maybe, even though Cinnamon had to go to North Carolina, she'd have fun with Carl on the drive. They could listen to music as loud as they wanted. They could pig out on candy from their stockings.
The whole day was wonderful, but the best gift came that afternoon. I was in my bedroom making playlists on my iPod, and Ty was hanging out with me, snapping together his Bionicle.
“Winnie,” Mom called. “Phone's for you.”
I scrambled to pick up the portable from my bedside table, figuring it was Dinah.
“That's so weird,” I said. “I was, like, right next to the phone, and I didn't even hear it ring. You think I'm going deaf?”
“Probably,” said a boy's voice.
My heart hammered. “Lars?”
“Can you hear this?” he asked. He made a high-pitched squeaking sound.
“Yes,” I said. I giggled. “Why are you squeaking at me?”
“Why are you telling people you're deaf?”
“I didn't say I
was
deaf. I said I
might
be. Anyway, I thought you were Dinah.”
“Uh-huh, likely story.”
There was a pause, just long enough for me to realize:
I'm
on the phone with Lars. He called me up on purpose. He dialed my number and asked to speak to me.
“So . . . what's up?” I said.
“Not much,” he said. His tone was laid-back, as if he were settling in for a nice long conversation. “I just wanted to wish you Merry Christmas.”
January
IN JANUARY, Louise had a pool party to celebrate turning thirteen. I always felt bad for people with winter birthdays, because let's face it, their party options were limited. There was Chuck E. Cheese's, back when we were five. Fit for Fun, also for when we were five. Maxine made the mistake of having a Fit for Fun party when she turned nine, and everybody sat there like, “Uh, what are we supposed to do?” Inflatable bounce-o-ramas just didn't have the appeal they once had. The thrill was gone.
With Chuck E. Cheese's and Fit for Fun off the list, there wasn't much left: the ice-skating rink, the roller-skating rink, the indoor pool. If I were Louise, I'd have just had a slumber party. But Louise wanted a pool party, probably to show off her new bikini. She told me about it the day she handed me my invitation, saying, “It is so cute. It's black and it looks like leather. It's not really leather, but that's what it looks like.”
Cinnamon was standing there, too, and she whispered, “Pleather.” It made me crack up.
My bathing suit was a one-piece, blue on the bottom and red and white on the top. It was very sailorish.
I was excited about the party. Not all the seventh-grade girls had been invited, and that made me feel special. But of course there was a problem, because apparently my life doesn't know how to be problem-free. If it's not one thing, it's another. Moanie-moan-moan.
I couldn't talk to Dinah about my problem, because Dinah
hadn't
been invited. And that in itself was a problem, although not as big a problem as maybe it should have been. I guess I was used to Dinah not always being invited to stuff. Anyway, Vanita hadn't been invited, either, so I told myself that she and Dinah could hang out and practice their hip-hop routines. The two of them were funny together: they had this thing where one of them would say, “Can you kick it?” And the other would reply, “You bet I can.” They also said “dang” a lot. And “You
know
I'm zesty.”
Once when Sandra came to the junior high to pick me up, she saw Dinah and Vanita hip-hopping in the parking lot. She watched them for a while, then said, “Dinah does know she's white, right?”
“Yes, Sandra, Dinah knows she's white,” I said. “What's your problem?”
“No problem,” Sandra had said. She shook her head in amazement. “Sheesh, I wish I could dance like that.”
“You can,” I said. “Sign up for the hip-hop club.”
Sandra gave me a look, and I giggled, imagining her getting jiggy with a gaggle of seventh graders.
Sometimes I felt jealous that Dinah had another friend besides me (not counting Cinnamon, who was friends with both of us). But for the record, I liked Vanita fine. She carried a water bottle with her everywhere, and once, after a bag of chips, she let me have a sip and didn't get all weird about the spit issue. It's just that whenever she hung out with us, she and Dinah would fall into their hip-hop riff, which left me out of the loop.
But again, my problem wasn't Dinah. My problem was that the party was todayâMom was supposed to take me in half an hourâand I'd just discovered that I'd started my period. If Louise's party was at the beach, I couldn't have gone at all, because you're never supposed to go in the ocean when it's your time of the month. Because of sharks. Mulberry Pool didn't have sharks, although it did have giant foam turtles for little kids to play on and a slide shaped like the mouth of a whale.
But, whatever. I obviously couldn't wear a pad under my bathing suit, and I obviously couldn't go without. Which left me only one alternative. It was timeâdeep breathâfor the tampon.
Mom would be no help, so I went looking for Sandra. I found her in her room, making a pot holder on a plastic loom.
“Sandra?” I said dubiously.
“What?” Sandra said. She kept her eyes on a stretchy red band of cloth, which she wove through the other bands already in place.
“Why are you making a pot holder?” I asked.
“Because I feel like it,” she said.
This was an answer, but not a very good one. “But
why
? Anyway, isn't that mine from when I was, like, eight?”
“Oh, and you're
soooo
much older now,” Sandra said. “So totally beyond pot holders.”
“Uh . . . yeah,” I said. Like
shouldn't you be, too?
“I found it and it reminded me of the good ol' days,” Sandra said. She kept weaving. “I'm making this for Bo.”
Uh-huh,
I thought.
Because Bo surely needs a multicolored stretchy pot holder
.
“Okay, listen,” I said, moving on to what was important. “I've got a pool party today, and I've got my period.”
“So?” Sandra said.
I made an exasperated noise. “So . . . I need a tampon. And I need you to . . . you know. Tell me how to do it.”
“You can take one from my bathroom,” she said. “The directions are in the box.”
“Directions?”
“Yes, directions, with a diagram and everything.” She paused in her weaving. “That's how I figured it out, and you can, too.”
I stood there. I gnawed on my thumbnail.
“What, you think I'm going to
show
you?” Sandra asked. “Gross, Winnie.”
I felt myself turn red. “No, I didn't think you were going to show me,” I said. But still I didn't move.
“What happened to, âOoo, look at me, I'm so old'?” Sandra said. Her hands were tied up with the loom, so she jerked her head toward the bathroom. “Go. I promise you, it's not that hard.”
But it was.
The directions came on a folded-up piece of paper with tiny words, and the first thing I read about was Toxic Shock Syndrome and how I could die if I kept the tampon in too long or used the wrong size.
Use a tampon with the minimum absorbency needed for your menstrual flow,
the directions warned.
There was an absorbency chart on the side of the box, but it was no help. If my “flow” was less than six grams, I should use Tampax Junior. Okay, fine. But how the heck was I supposed to know how many grams my flow was? That was crazy. What was I going to do, measure it?
Anyway, Sandra's tampons were size “super,” which were meant for a flow of nine to twelve grams. Again, not a lot of help there. But I guessed I'd have to go with it, since “super” was the only size I had.
I'm ssssssuper,
I said to myself.
Super-dee-duper
.
I pulled out a tampon, crinkly in its white-and-green wrapper. We eyed each other.
Take a deep breath and relax,
the directions said. I inhaled, then slowly let it out.
Step one.
After washing your hands, take the product out of the wrapper.
The
product
? Why didn't they call it a tampon? I put the wrapped
product
on the sink and washed my hands. Then I picked the product back up and tore off the wrapper. Unwrapped, it looked like a mouse with a little white tail, and I remembered the time Ty stole one from Sandra's box and was playing with it when company came over.
Step two.
Get into a comfortable position. Most women either sit on the toilet with knees apart, squat slightly with knees bent, or stand with one foot on the toilet seat.
Oh, good heavens. This was way too complicated, and I hadn't even started yet, except for washing my hands. And they neglected to mention pulling down my underwear, which I assumed would have to be done. I checked the lock on the bathroom door, then pulled down my panties and sat on the toilet.
Step three.
Insert the applicator. Hold the outer insertion tube by the finger grip rings with your thumb and middle finger. With the removal string hanging down, insert the tip of the applicator into your vagina at a slight upward angle, approximately a 45 degree angle. (See image 1.)
Whoa. Stop.
My breath came in pants, because it was too many words, including the actual V-word, which evidently they could say even though they were incapable of saying “tampon.” Personally, I thought “tampon” was a lot easier. Not that I was going to scream it from the rooftops or anything.
And the whole bit about a forty-five-degree angle? Yeah, right!
Um, Dad, could you please come here for a second? And bring your protractor?
I flipped to the diagram, then immediately wished I hadn't. Noooo, no no no no. I did not like looking at that. There were two legs, and a bottom, and then swirly limabean shapes that I guess were the girl's insides. Her uterus, maybe? And some other organs I wasn't sure about, which in my opinion really had no business being there. And then there was the
product,
going blithely up into the depths.
This was
so
not good.
“Sandra!” I bellowed.
She didn't answer. Too absorbed in her pot holder, no doubt.
I was sweating, and I wondered if I should rewash my hands. The tampon sat limply in my palm.
Just do it, you big dummy,
I told myself.
Do you want to go to Louise's party or not?
I grimaced and wiggled the applicator into what I hoped was the right spot. Quickly I read the next direction.
Step four.
Push the tampon inside.
Oh. Well, duh. I pushed on the end of the applicator, and the inner cardboard tube slid inside the outer tube. Together, I pulled the cardboard parts out. The tampon stayed in.
Was that it? Had I done it?
I straightened my spine, still sitting on the toilet. I wrapped the applicator in toilet paper, then threw it away. The directions said it could be flushed, but that didn't seem like the best idea. What if it got stuck? What if the plumber knew it was mine?
Okay then,
I said to myself. I stood and pulled up my jeans.
Well done
.
At the party, Louise wasn't the only one in a bikini. Amanda wore a bikini, and so did Gail, and so did Gail's boob-friend Malena. Malena's bikini was white with green trim, and Malena looked terrific in it. She looked like a woman instead of a girl.
Well, I was a woman, tooâa young woman, anyway. I had a tampon inside of me to prove it. And who cared if I was the only one in a one-piece? One-pieces made so much more sense. There were far fewer opportunities for slippage.
“Check out the personality sponge,” Cinnamon said, indicating Louise with her gaze. Louise hovered near Malena, aping Malena's gestures without even realizing it. When Malena raked her hand through her hair, Louise raked
her
hand through her hair. When Malena adjusted her bikini, Louise tugged at her own. Cinnamon made fun of Louise mercilessly, which I know wasn't very nice, especially at Louise's own party. But I'd figured out over the course of our friendship that Cinnamon had an eensy bit of a mean streak. It mainly didn't bother me, because she was never mean to me. And although she said things about other people, it was never to their faces.