The storms kept coming. There was a feeling of meteorological unease. The pigeons of Copley Square whuffed their displeasure. At the corner of Mass and Cass—the epicenter of the Methadone Mile—volunteers handed out blankets. Commuters waited for buses that never came.
Schools closed for a day, a week, for two weeks, prompting a citywide childcare crisis. In the Savin Hill section of Dorchester, streets were taken over by boys on sleds.
Boston descended on Star Market girded for battle. Toilet paper, bottled water, frozen pizzas. It was impossible to keep these items in stock. Checkout lines were staggering. Shoppers read the same headlines over and over, the aging starlet who was married again or pregnant again or fat again. They studied the contents of each other’s carts, a stranger’s secret comforts: cartons of cigarettes and extra-sensitive condoms, tubs of ice cream and cases of IPA.
In the neighborhoods, shoveling took on a feverish intensity. Parking spaces were saved with wheelbarrows, with lawn chairs, with recycling bins.
The boys attacked Savin Hill with whatever was handy: cafeteria trays, trash can lids. They raced down the slopes with war whoops, shrieks of terror and delight, because childhood always finds a way.
YEARS AGO, WHEN CLAUDIA WAS JUST STARTING OUT ON THE hotline, the callers’ questions amazed her. For a startling number of people, the basic facts of human reproduction were shrouded in mystery. She answered calls from women who douched after sex, or had sex only while menstruating, and were stunned to find themselves pregnant. More than one truly believed she’d contracted herpes from a toilet seat. And these weren’t teenagers; they were grown women. Teenagers would have known better.
Considering what passed for sex education thirty years ago, in the public schools of Clayburn, Maine, this made a certain kind of sense.
It happened in a single afternoon that fell, in 1983, on the first warm day of spring. In Maine, it is a holiday of sorts: the hats and gloves packed away, the Bean parkas moved to the back of the closet. These are the rituals of a primitive people blessing the return of the sun. At Clayburn Middle School, the sixth-grade boys whooped it up during an extended recess. The girls, meanwhile, were trapped indoors, sequestered in the cafeteria for a Very Special Presentation by a sales rep for the Modess corporation, an ebullient young woman whose entire job was to drive back and forth across New England showing schoolgirls a filmstrip about menstruation. After the movie, she handed out sample packs of Modess sanitary napkins. At age eleven, the girls had no possible use for these items; in 1983, synthetic hormones had not yet reached alarming concentrations in the American food supply, and puberty was still a ways away. Still, most were poor enough that getting something—anything—for free was worth crowing about.
The sales rep showed them how to wrap a used napkin in toilet paper and dispose of it properly. Through the open window they heard the crack of ball against bat, boys cheering and shouting. Someone had scored a run.
Along with the napkins they were given a booklet printed on heavy paper, with a title in curlicue script: Growing Up and Liking It. It looked like a child’s storybook, and in a way it was. The main character was a girl named Patty, whose family had moved to a new city and who kept in touch with her old friends, Beth and Ginny, by writing letters （a quaint notion, even in 1983）。 The girls swapped news about school and boys, but mostly about getting their periods and using Modess products. They discussed the mysterious requirements of “heavy flow days” and “light flow days,” and whether you could wash your hair or shower during your period.
Who would even ask such a question? Why would anyone think you couldn’t? Even Claudia knew better, and she knew almost nothing. Her information about sex came mainly from Justine, who knew as little as she did, but with greater certainty. From the moment Justine got her period, Claudia wanted one desperately. This was Justine’s superpower. She could make anything—even bleeding from the crack—seem glamorous.
Of course, none of that had anything to do with sex. For that, Claudia turned to television. Vague references to the act—what Bob Eubanks, the toothy host of The Newlywed Game, called making whoopee—were everywhere, but actual information was rare. At least once per episode of The Love Boat, a make-out scene would cut to a close-up of the DO NOT DISTURB sign being placed on the cabin door.