Chapter 42
Natalie
It’s been one hundred and fifty-one days without a word from Candace.
How’s that possible, you might ask? Well, to put it simply, she ignores me, and against my better judgment, I’m letting her.
With all my free time, I’ve resorted to binge-watching Megan's favorite movie.
You know, the one where drugged-up zombies attack each other's faces while living in a padded room.
I think Sandra Bullock's in it, anyway, I’m fully ready to be locked away in a padded cell if Candace continues with the cold shoulder.
She scurried out of the dance as if she were late for curfew, and it’s been crickets since.
I blue-balled my way through the rest of the cleanup, blasting my jams loud enough that I’m sure someone filed a neighborhood complaint.
The silence is deafening, and my eardrums might actually explode if she doesn’t start talking soon.
Summer is scooting up real quick, meaning the end of the school year and potentially my last chance at getting her back.
The teacher I’m subbing for will be back from her leave of absence, giving me the freedom to teach elsewhere.
What happens if I transfer to a whole other school?
There’s no way we had some puppy love, schoolgirl crushes on each other, and now one of us is moving, never to be seen again.
My life, as shitty as it’s been, isn't some lame Lifetime movie.
My therapist, Megan, and our overly involved parents have made it pretty clear that I need to come back to reality and move on.
Too bad for them that idea sucks ass, and I’m never giving up my dream of us growing old together, sitting on the front porch yelling at punk-ass kids to get off our lawn.
With the impending doom of summer, time is ticking, and we’ve made little to no progress.
If this really is it, and I end up bouncing around to different schools all year, I promise you I’ll follow her everywhere she goes.
My boombox and I will be in close proximity for the rest of her life, blasting 80s love ballads until she gives in.
I’m not ashamed to pull a John Cusack and stand outside her window, nor am I afraid to write love songs and paste the notebook paper all over her front door.
The lengths I’ll go to win her over are literally endless, and I’ve got more than enough time on my hands.
The bell’s about to ring for my free period, which coincides with lunch, giving me an extra hour to sit around and wallow.
Betty’s moved our meetings around so many times since taking charge that we have a color-coded schedule now, along with a morning text alerting us of an emergency meeting.
Nothing is on the schedule for today, but I won’t get too excited because we’ve got back-to-back planning meetings for the end-of-the-year party.
Since Betty took over, they’re worse than ever.
That bitch even cancelled book club. How the PTA controls what women are reading in their off time is beyond me, but she thinks she has a say.
I mean, to be fair, the books they were reading were pretty wild, and if all these women are having affairs with their gardeners like the women in their books, then they’re a lot freakier than I gave them credit for.
Candace has been inconsistent since the dance, leaving early or forgoing the meeting altogether.
We sit on opposite ends of the table, barely making eye contact even when I stare really intently, hoping she can feel my energy from across the table.
It never works, and before Betty dismisses everyone, Candace jumps from her seat, claiming to have an appointment.
My stomach growls, reminding me of the snack pile I have in my car. The cafeteria food here is probably what they feed inmates, and I’ll never stoop that low. Walking down the halls, passing the women’s bathroom, I hear crying, and girl code immediately engages.
“Madi?” My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach when I see Candace’s daughter crying over the sink with a wad of tissues in her hand. “Dude, what happened? Please tell me nobody touched you? I swear I’ll go to jail for you, I don’t give a shit.”
Soft sobs jumble up her words, that I can’t quite understand. Shaking her head, she lifts the blood-soaked tissues, and tears take over, leaving her face soaked. “I don’t know what to do. My mom’s not answering her phone, and I’m too scared to go to the nurse.”
Shit on a fucking stick, this really feels like something a mom should be handling. Candace would do a much better job explaining what not to do during your first period. Fuck, what did my mom say? Oh, that’s right, “Here’s a tampon, don't shove it in too high or it’ll get stuck.”
“Nat?” Madi’s quivering voice brings me back out of my nightmare. Shit, she needs help, and all she’s got is me. “What do I do? Do you have anything? Please don’t make me go to the nurse.”
“No way, little homie. That nurse is gonna have a stack of pads from the 70s. They’ll probably have suspenders attached to them. I’ve got a bag of supplies in my car. Hold tight here, and I’ll be right back.”
I choke back tears as I run to my car for my emergency purse, replaying my first period in my mind.
Thank God I wasn’t at school, what a drag.
There was nothing good on TV, and my mom wasn’t home, so I rummaged through the pantry, hoping there was some chocolate or something filled with sugar, when I got the worst cramp of my life.
Literally thought I was dying or worse, constipated.
When I ran to the bathroom and saw the crime scene in my underwear, I literally screamed, thinking I was hemorrhaging.
Obviously, I’d already taken a health class that explained everything, but in the heat of the moment, the last thing on my mind was Mr. Anderson and his offensively long nose hairs, explaining that once a month a lady bleeds and it’s perfectly normal.
When my mom got home, she was less than pleased that I bled onto the newly reupholstered sofa.
Meanwhile, I was less than pleased that I now had to walk around life unbothered like I wasn’t pouring blood into a diaper.
No way was I shoving some long cotton swab up my cooch, how barbaric! I was twelve.
Purse in hand, I run back into the bathroom to a confused girl who just needs her mom but is momentarily stuck with me.
“Okay, sis. Here we go.” I hand her a pad and tampon, explaining both in way more detail than she probably needs.
Without getting too graphic, and with all my clothes on, I show how to use both, making sure she’s not too overwhelmed.
“For today, I think you should go with the pad because it’s the easiest, and then maybe you can work your way to the advanced stuff with your mom after school.
Since it’s your first time, you might bleed a lot, but don’t freak out if you don’t.
Everyone is different, and it’ll probably take your body a little while to get on a routine. ”
Nodding her head, she takes the maxi pad and goes into a stall. “I’ve got some Midol, but I don’t want to get in trouble for giving you anything. Do you have cramps?”
“Mom says you can give me medicine if you need to. She said you're the emergency contact,” Madi says from inside the stall, sounding muffled as she struggles to become a woman.
My head turns so fast that smoke comes out of my ears. “I’m your what?” I ask, completely caught off guard.
The stall opens, revealing a pre-teen who looks ten times better than when I found her.
“Yeah, last year she told Kate and me that if we needed anything at school and she couldn’t be reached, to come to you.
And yes, I guess I do have cramps. My stomach hurts so bad it feels like an alien is trying to break free. ”
While she washes up, I stare at her in bewilderment that Candace made me an emergency contact for her girls. What does that even mean? Does it come with a title or a vest? Do I have to show a card stating I’m the emergency contact? I hope not. I can barely remember to carry my wallet.
“Okay, cool. So here’s the pill. It’ll help with the cramps, and if you get a headache, which sometimes happens. Let your mom know I gave you one, and she can give you more before bed. You’ll probably feel a little bloated today and maybe overly tired, but that’s all totally normal.”
“Thanks, Nat. I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t find me. I’d end up crying in the nurse's office, and I’d probably have to call my grandma or dad.”
Before I scoot her back to class, I’m reminded of one last thing. “Oh, crap, turn around. Check in the mirror and make sure you didn’t leak through your pants.”
Turning quickly, she does, and we’re all clear. I’ve heard horror stories of girls walking the halls with stained pants, and not one person said anything, so much for girl code.
“You’re the best, Nat. Thank you so much.” Her hug is sweet and warm, making it that much harder not to be in her life.
Before she rushes back out, I hand her a few more pads and remind her to come back and change the one she’s wearing in a few hours.
Most teachers are sympathetic to the crimson wave, but there are always a few geezers who couldn’t care less that the lining of our uterus is literally shredding the life out of itself.
It must be nice to be seventy and no longer have to deal with menstrual cycles, just the occasional bout of diarrhea, and smelling like a corpse.