I spend a few minutes arguing with the guy at the desk about whether I can enter because, according to him, “it’s not a public restroom.” Despite my explanation and holding the package of pads in front of his face, he makes me fill out a registration form for a free membership card before I can finally go past the lobby.
“Kira?” I push open the restroom door. It reminds me of my elementary school bathroom—the antiseptic smell, buzzing fluorescent lighting, the old tile on the floor, utilitarian sinks under scratched-up mirrors. “It’s Sam.”
There’s a sniff from one of the four stalls.
“I’m here,” I say, walking toward the stall with the pair of sneakers peeking out from under the metal door. I feel funny hovering outside the door, so I go into the next stall, close the lid of the toilet, and sit down. “I brought underwear, a pair of sweatpants, pads, wipes, and those little mini Snickers bars.”
“Those aren’t allowed. They have peanuts.”
“Okay, well, don’t open those until you get home then.” I hold the shopping bag under the divider. “I hope this stuff fits. I had to guess at the sizes.”
She takes the bag from me and I hear it rustling. A minute later, she hands it back to me with the underwear and leggings she changed out of and I have no idea what to do with them, but I take them anyway.
“Do you know how to use the pad? You take it out of the little package and then peel off the wrapper thing, like a sticker? And then push it onto the crotch of your underwear.”
“I know.” She sounds weary.
There’s some rustling and then some silence.
“My tablet’s dead,” Kira says. “Can I use your phone to text my mom?”
“Of course.” I unlock the phone and hand it under the stall divider.
“A boy in parkour asked me if I pooped my pants,” she says after a a minute.
“Fuck that kid,” I tell her. “I’m sorry to use that word, but sometimes it’s warranted. My God. Boys suck.”
“It was kind of brown so I thought maybe I did,” she says. “I came in here and cried.”
“Hey, the bathroom stall is a perfect place to cry. I do it all the time.”
“Why?”
Where do I even begin?
“I think your first period always shows up when you’re not totally prepared. It’s a rite of passage thing. Every girl has a couple period horror stories. You’re one of us now.” I find myself smiling in her direction, even though she obviously can’t see it through the stall. “Do the pants fit okay?”
“They’re a little big.”
“You can always roll the waistband down. I thought about getting shorts, but it’s the middle of December and then I was, like, maybe leggings? But sometimes pads kind of show through the stretchy material, so I went with…” I don’t know why I’m rambling. I guess I don’t know what else to do. “Anyway, they can be your comfy period sweatpants. You can rot in them once a month and not have the waistband be too tight.”
“Are you gonna drive me home?” Kira asks.
“I don’t think the rec center people will let you go with me. Because stranger danger. But your dad will be here pretty soon to pick you up, right? Do you feel up for going back to parkour, or—”
“Can we just stay in here for a little?” she asks.
“Yeah, of course. You know, all the best conversations happen in the restroom. It’s the perfect time for girl talk.”
“Why did you leave?” she asks immediately, as if she’d been barely holding the question in for the last few minutes.
“Well, I got a job in another state.”
“But you had a job here. At a restaurant.”
“I did. But I’ve been trying to get a new job that I might like better, working with art,” I say. “And it’s really hard to find jobs like that, so sometimes you have to move to another city, even if it’s a place where you don’t really want to live.”
“I thought you had a fight with my dad. Or you got mad at him and that’s why you left.”
