A sneaker squeak echoes across the gym. Mr. Dalton, our gym teacher, has split the girls into two groups. One will jog the perimeter of the shiny tan floor. The other will practice the long jump on mats. I’m sure Elisabeth is thrilled she gets to run. She still won’t even look at me. Not like I try to get her to anymore. I wait in line to jump over the tape on the floor. Ashley waits in front of me. She, like most people I used to be friendly with, hasn’t talked to me since the thing with Josh. I’m trying not to let it get to me. Ashley’s tied her white tee into a knot so her flat brown belly peeks above her green shorts. Only she can make our required gym uniform look sexy. In front of her is Tiffany. Tiffany, with her huge breasts and wide hips. She pulls at the back of the shorts, which keep creeping up her behind. Only she can make our uniform look cruel.
Mr. Dalton whistles as he sends Tiffany into her jump. With a running start she leaps off the ground, landing farther than anyone else. Mr. Dalton raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed.
Tiffany stands up and walks to the back of the line. When she senses me watching her, she glares back at me. Her laugh comes back to me: You think they’re your friends? I look away. I can’t help but remember fourth-grade gym class, where Tiffany’s reputation started. We were playing soccer on the field when one of Ashley’s friends noticed the large brown spot blossoming on her behind. She ran inside, her hand over her butt. Her breasts, still small and new at that time, bounced as she ran. Any hopes she might have harbored of being accepted were dashed. Only last year did kids stop calling her Stain.
In the middle of this memory something dawns on me, making its way across my body like another kind of stain.
I haven’t gotten my period.
I’ve gotten my period exactly thirteen times, each exactly twenty-nine days apart. So where is it now?
My heart flutters against my throat. The gym goes kind of wavy and gray. I tell Mr. Dalton I have to use the bathroom, and run into the locker room, where I left my book bag. In the front of my notebook is a calendar. I count back from today, my heart so loud I’m sure someone would be able to hear it if I weren’t here all alone.
Today is the twenty-ninth day. I breathe out and head right for the bathroom, knowing I’ll see blood. I have to see blood. I close the metal door and latch it. But when I wipe, the tissue is completely clear.
In Spanish I can barely hear Senorita Clark’s voice. I copy the words from the board into my notebook, but they don’t register. After a moment I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. When I get there, there is still no sign of my period. I tell myself to breathe deeply. It is normal for cycles to be slightly varied. We learned that last year in Health.
When I get back to my desk, a few kids are giggling. Ashley, in front of me, sits perfectly straight. I look down and see what’s so amusing. Ashley wrote SLUT on my notebook. Heat comes into my face. Then tears. I blink them back, refusing to let anyone see me so bothered.
“Ha, ha,” I whisper to Ashley. “Very funny.”
When the bell rings, Ashley looks right at me. She swings her highlighted hair over a shoulder and purses her glossy lips.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” she tells me. She says this seriously and not unkindly, like she wants me to listen.
I watch her go. Somebody bumps my back as he passes me. It’s Jason. He clears his throat and looks down. His dirty blond hair is perfectly mussed, and he wears headphones around his neck. He has on a J. Crew turtleneck sweater.
“Excuse me,” I say, hoping he hears the anger in my voice. After all, if it weren’t for him and his perfect blond hair, if it weren’t for the way that sweater hangs off his shoulders, showing off his gorgeous body, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
Day 30 of my cycle, Ruth is in the hallway. I try to look busy, on my way to somewhere important, but it’s no use.
“I was hoping I’d see you today,” she says.
“I have some homework to catch up on,” I say, “in the library.” I gesture to the sea of people rushing by us.
“There’s just a few weeks before the deadline,” she says. She stares at me, concerned.
“I know.” December fifteenth. The date’s been etched into my mind, stuck there like a bad song. I still have nothing. Chances are I never will. I am tempted to tell her, let the truth come out: I no longer have a gift, like she once said. I’m just a pathetic loser who nobody likes. Worse, it’s possible I’m a poster child for teen pregnancy. Won’t that look nice in the contest bio.
“This week is Thanksgiving. Fm going to need something soon.”
“I know,” I say again.
Ruth gives a sharp nod, indicating she’s starting to not trust me, and continues to her classroom. The girl with the painting, the one at the party whose name I never learned, walks by. She smiles, a small, kind smile.
“Do you have anything yet?” she whispers.
I shake my head. The hall is emptying as people disappear into classrooms.
“Maybe you’re overthinking it,” she says. “Sometimes I do that.”
“What should I do?” I ask.
“Just do the first thing that comes to your mind.”
“What if it sucks?” I ask.
“Then it sucks. And you do the next thing that comes to your mind.”
I smile. She starts to leave, but I catch her arm. “I feel awful,” I say, “but I don’t know your name.”
“Brooke,” she tells me before she runs into Ruth’s classroom, just making the bell.
The next day I bring some old photos with me, knowing I’ll be staying late in the darkroom. Once I’m alone, I pull out the two photos I want. One shows me last year. I am laughing, my head tilted back. It is something I barely remember being able to do, laugh like that. Let it all go. So much has happened since to weigh me down. It feels impossible the girl in the photo is really me.
The next photo is recent, one of the ones I took a month ago when trying to capture my portrait for the contest. I can see the difference in my face. I am darker, more serious. My eyes are no longer so light. I lay the photos next to each other. Last year Ruth taught the class an overlay technique. You transfer the image of one negative to another. This is what I do with the two pictures.
A long time passes. Long enough that when I go out to the hallway for a drink from the water fountain, even the janitor seems to be gone. But when I come back and see the result, the time spent is clearly worth it. The old me hovers like a ghost over the new me. It is a picture of two girls, both me. A real self-portrait. I stomp my foot with a sense of finality. That’s it. I’m done.
When I get home, I expect to hear it from Mom about being late for dinner, but instead I hear laughter from the dining room. I drop my bag and go to see. Mom, Anne, and a boy sit around the table, eating spaghetti. The boy is tall and skinny. He wears glasses like Anne, and I recognize him from the halls at school. All three look up at me.
“Jessica,” Mom says. “Look who Anne brought home for dinner.”
Anne blushes. The boy smiles a little. This must be Anne’s boyfriend.
“I’m Lionel,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”
I smile. “Nice to meet you,” I say. Anne beams at me. I’m not yet used to this blushing, happy Anne. Lionel goes back to eating. He cuts a meatball into four neat bites. He spears one and places it in his mouth. After chewing, he raises his fork to Mom.
“Delightful meatballs,” he says.
I sit down, trying to hide my smile. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t Steve Urkel from that stupid TV show.
“Lionel is a junior like Anne,” Mom says.
“Is that so?” I say, still working on not laughing.
Anne gives me a warning look. “Have some more salad,” she says to Lionel. He smiles at her.
“She wants me to eat my vegetables,” he says, looking at me. I can see he has some bad acne along his jaw. “She’s so good to me.” He reaches toward her, and they touch hands.
I raise my eyebrows, but when I glance at Mom, she looks only pleased.
“So,” I say, hoping to change the subject. I don’t want to see any more touching of body parts between these two. “What are your plans after high school?”
Lionel pats Anne’s hand before pulling his back.
“College,” he says. “Anne and I are talking about applying to Swarthmore together.”
“You’re planning your future together?” I blurt. I want to be nice, but they seem a little young for this. It’s Anne’s first boyfriend, and I doubt he was much of a Don Juan before Anne. I look again at Mom, trying to catch her eye, but she keeps smiling at Lionel.
“When you’ve found the right one, it makes sense,” Anne says.
“Of course we both want to finish college before getting married,” Lionel says. They nod at each other.
“How do you know it’s the right one when it’s the only one you’ve ever dated?” My voice is rising. I’m aware I’m being rude. I’m aware too my anger is misplaced. What am I really so pissed about?
Mom finally looks at me. “Jessica,” she warns.
“Are you kidding me?” I say to her. “You think this is normal?”
Anne glares at me, the familiar darkness coming back into her face. I feel relief creep into my chest, but I ignore it. Do I really want my sister to be unhappy?
“Yes,” Mom says. She looks at Anne and gives her an apologetic smile. “I think it’s normal to want love in your life.”
That’s when I get it. It’s not that I don’t want Anne to be happy. It’s that I want to be loved. Mom watches Anne with admiration, and Anne looks smugly at the both of us. Since when am I more like Mom than Anne is?
I sit back, my appetite gone. “Can I be excused?” I ask.
“You’re not going to eat anything?”
“I’m not hungry,” I say. I force a smile at Lionel, who stands as I leave. “Nice meeting you,” I mumble.