It’s cool. No one else’s time is important or anything. Not that I really want to leave the house.
I’m sprawled on the couch lopsidedly, awaiting his arrival. Frankly, I’m still unwell. When I close my eyes, I’m tormented by the memory of Clay Diaz’s face when he saw my tampon. He was disgusted （and somehow still incredibly handsome）。 Disgusted is probably too generous—more generous than the portions at IHOP.
It’s not quite as mortifying as when a gust of wind blew my skirt up in sixth grade, revealing my period panties and superabsorbent pad to the entire class—but it’s nearly as bad.
Kassie and Nori tried to convince me periods aren’t embarrassing, that it’s natural, yada yada. Logically, I agree. But spilling a pharmacy’s worth of feminine products in front of the entire student body （including your crush） is flat-out humiliating, no matter how you slice it.
To make matters worse, the whole debacle caused me to bomb my scholarship interview. And by bomb, I mean I rambled incoherently about the double standard for women versus men. For the record, Cynthia, the foundation chairwoman, had merely asked me to outline my biggest academic accomplishments.
Renner is to blame, obviously. If he hadn’t blocked me and subsequently ripped my bag pocket like an ape, this never would have happened.
Nori is adamant that I slide into Clay’s DMs for damage control. It’s weirder NOT to acknowledge the tampon explosion. Kassie agrees and says it gives me an excuse to strike up a conversation instead of my first choice: disappear into obscurity.
After much back-and-forth in our girls’ chat, I fired off a casual peer-reviewed Instagram DM this morning.
Me: Hey Clay. Sorry about what happened in the hallway yesterday. Hope you weren’t too traumatized.
And then it began. The staring contest with my phone. It’s like watching boiling water under the delusion that my eye lasers will speed up the process.
I’ve grown weary of the lack of response, and send an SOS in the group chat, which only heightens my anxiety. Whenever my phone buzzes with Calm down texts, I’m overcome with false hope that it’s Clay.
I’ve restarted my phone twice now, paranoid that it’s not receiving correspondence of any sort. I can only conclude that Clay thinks I’m a freak. （He’d be correct.）
My phone vibrates and my heart kicks into double time.
My Fair Leader: sry, gimme 5.
I grumble like a curmudgeon. Since ninth grade, Renner has made an annoying habit of stealing my phone and changing his contact name. Since the student council election, he’s gotten cockier with the names.
Sexy President
Commander & Chief
Your Worst Nightmare
The Right Honorable JTR
J. T.
In my opinion, Twit or Satan would be more fitting. I promptly switch his name back to the latter, with the purple devil emoji.
Footsteps in the hall jolt me out of my trance. Mom’s up.
“Rachael is draining me today,” she announces through a yawn. Rachael is a fictional psychopath who has a habit of poisoning her husbands. It’s part of Mom’s “process” to speak about her characters as if they’re real people.
“Sorry to hear. Maybe Rachael should see a therapist,” I croak.
“Oh, she’d love the attention, the narcissist.” Mom’s rooting around in her purse, juggling her phone, sunglasses, wallet, and keys in a way that triggers my anxiety. She finally tosses a pack of Band-Aids toward me. “Grabbed these last night at work. For your blisters.”
“Thanks,” I say, grateful.
She plunks onto the couch beside me, pulling my battered feet onto her lap to inspect. “Orthopedic shoes, my ass. Why don’t you just wear flats?”
“Kassie says flats are basic.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Of course she does. Anyways, how was school? Don’t you have your big scholarship interview today?”
“That was yesterday.”
“How’d it go?”
My future just dove headfirst down the drain. Clay Diaz also thinks I’m a freak. I’m going to be dateless at prom. My best friend is moving far, far away in a matter of months. Life as I know it is changing. It’s cool. It’s fine. No big deal. Of course, I’m too drained to say all this out loud, so I settle for a grumpy, “I don’t have the strength to talk about it.”
“Well, I’m here when you’re ready,” she says, though the dark circles under her blue eyes tell me she doesn’t have the bandwidth for emotional labor.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”