Skeptical nod.
But soon, we fall into a rhythm. Scrape, sprinkle, scrub, rinse.
I let my thoughts drift—to my fears, my exit plan, my aches—until one ache in particular jolts me to attention. A deep, tightening rock of pressure in my lower abdomen.
Oh no.
Dull cramps, turning sharp and stabby.
Damn it.
I do the math. My last period was late September, just in time for Homecoming weekend. Which means…it’s here. Right on schedule.
I need help. And fast.
“So, Margie?” I hold back the pot in my hand, waiting until she catches my eye.
She gives me a confused look. “Aye?”
“It’s, uh, my time of the month, and I’m wondering…how do you deal with that stuff here?”
Blank look.
I chuckle nervously. “You know.” Air quotes. “Feminine hygiene?”
Still nothing.
Getting desperate, I try every phrase I can think of. “Period? Aunt Flo? The Red Baron?”
Still, she just stares.
Finally, I drop the big one. “Menstruation.”
She recoils like I just flung actual blood at her.
With a prim little grimace, she informs me, “’Tisn’t proper to discuss the menstruous contaminations of women.”
Menstruous? I bite back a giggle. “You meanmonstrous. Am I right?”
But instead of smiling, Margie’s expression grows stern. “Month-blood is God’s reminder of Eve’s original sin.”
I groan. “Great. And cramps? What are those supposed to remind us of?”
She jerks her head away, refusing to even look at me. “’Tis a sin to complain.”
Oh, for the love of?—
I thought I saw confidence in her. But no, she’s just judgy.
“Wow.” I shake my head. “You must think we’re all sinners.”
“Indeed.” She lifts her chin, eyeing my hair. “Red-headed women especially so.”
I roll my eyes. “Let me guess. Because we have a temper?”
“Naw.” Her gaze scrapes over me, slow and deliberate. “’Tis on account of how red-haired childrenare bred.”
I laugh. “Excuse me?”
