Girls in Charge (13 page)

I just sat in my crouched position, praying for him to move along.

“Want some gum, Luke?” I asked.

“Nah, we're eating bagels up front.”

And with that, he left. Taylor reached her hand deep into her purse, like it was a magician's hat, and pulled out a P-A-D.

“Thank you!” I whispered. I grabbed it and held it in my closed fist.

“Here's my sweatshirt,” Taylor said. “In case there's stainage.”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, “so much.”

I reached around my crouching self and tied Taylor's gray hoodie at my waist. Then I made the short trip back to the still-vacant restroom.

I peeled the strips of paper from the pad's adhesive strips and pressed it in place. No one tells you which side goes up, which is a little confusing. But I figured either way it would do the job. I washed up again and, much relieved, headed back to my seat. But first I stopped to talk to Taylor.

“All good now?”

“Much better, thanks,” I said. “Hey, I never even asked you about Clem.”

To the annoyance of all, Clem claimed to be an expert on New York due to all her modeling shoots there.

“It was okay,” Taylor said. “She was too busy giving directions to the bus driver.”

“That is so her,” I said. “Well, I'm glad you came.”

Then we both started laughing because we were thinking about the one very practical reason why I was glad Taylor was there, on the bus, with supplies in her purse.

Back at my seat, I decided not to share my big news. I felt fine, but the situation felt new and shaky. I just wanted to sit still and get home, keeping the shock to myself. Which brings up another point: Just because the Pink Locker Society answers girls' questions about puberty and stuff doesn't mean we think that everyone has to be blabbing all the time about this stuff. It's private, and it felt especially private to me at that moment. Of course I told Kate, but not until days later when my jeans were once again clean and Taylor's sweatshirt had been washed and returned.

But I did have something to share when I finally snaked my way back to my seat.

“I think I have our third nominee for next year's Pink Locker Society,” I said. “Taylor Mayweather.”

 

Thirty-four

No one would have admitted it, but it felt good to see our town and have the bus lurch into the school parking lot. Everyone's parents were waiting. Some sat in their cars. Others leaned against minivans, chatting. My mother was easy to spot as she was even more ginormously pregnant than she was when I left.

“Why didn't you send Dad?” I asked with concern, the first words tumbling out of my mouth.

“It's good to see you, too,” she said sarcastically, and shimmied back into the driver's seat. “Well, I wanted to see you. I missed you,” she said. “And I've been bored senseless at home with nothing to do.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Well, they say the babies dropped, which is a good sign.”

“How can that be good?”

“It just means they're lower, ready for the big day. Enough about me. How was your trip?”

“Good. Fun. Fast,” I said.

“And your presentation went well? Your principal already posted a photo from the event on the school's Web site,” she said.

“I think it went well. It just flew by. I don't even remember what I said.”

“And now graduation, just two days away. This is quite a week.”

“One kind of big thing did happen on the trip,” I said.

“What? Something bad?”

“No. I, um, got my period.”

“Oh, Jemma! How wonderful. What happened? Did you have your stuff?”

I explained that no, I didn't, and that there were some urgent laundry matters I needed to attend to. Mom listened, offered plentiful advice, and then started to gush.

“You know, I was just chatting with some of my poetry friends, and one of them had a party for her daughter when she got her first period. It's a real milestone, you know.”

“Do not, under any circumstances, have a party for me. No party!”

“Okay. Okay. I guess it's a little overboard.”

“It's a lot overboard,” I said.

After a shower, it felt even better to be home. I felt grown-up but a little uncomfortable wearing the pad. I'd get used to it, Mom said. I sat on the bed and popped open the pink laptop to check on the PLS questions that had stacked up while we were in New York. How could we pick a stopping point when girls had questions all the time? I called both Kate and Piper with a proposal. We shouldn't pick a date to stop running the Web site, I said. We should simply keep it running over the summer and help the new girls take over and get accustomed to their new job.

“Problems don't take the summer off,” I said. And I started to think about all the summer questions I had now because I had started my you-know-what.

Kate agreed. “In fact, there are a bunch of summer problems—some questions that only come up in summer,” she said.

We ticked off bathing suit issues, family vacation issues, boredom issues, summer camp issues, “I haven't seen my crush in months” issues. The list went on.

“And don't forget that the new girls need to learn about how to climb into the Pink Locker Society offices and everything,” Piper said.

We thought maybe Ms. Russo or Mrs. Percy could help us get into the school over the summer. Then we could show them how to do it.

“Funny how we did all this without anyone to show us, just a note,” Kate said.

“We did,” I said. It was only then that it hit me. What we accomplished in just one school year had been impressive, worthy of an award, even.

With our summer transition plan in place, we also agreed that Principal F. could introduce us at the graduation ceremony. With graduation less than forty-eight hours away, the clock was ticking on our pink secret.

 

Thirty-five

Why are graduation days always so devilishly hot? It's not like I've been to twenty graduations, but I'd been to a few. And all were stiflingly hot. Ours would be no different. Suddenly, the temperature spiked from late-spring lovely to ninety humid degrees, just in time for our outdoor graduation ceremony. We'd be wearing—what else?—heat-insulating, full-length graduation robes and caps. And my mother, as you might imagine, was a concern. No one wants a very pregnant woman standing out in sweltering heat. But she wouldn't skip it.

“Oh, no. I'm going,” she said. “You'll only graduate from middle school one time and I'll be there.”

When we arrived at school, Dad followed her around like her athletic trainer, prepared with a towel, sunscreen, and cold drinks. He was also ready to whisk her inside the school building, where it was deliciously air-conditioned. I broke away to find my group. Mrs. Percy was in charge of our graduation caps. Armed with a pocket full of hairpins, she showed everyone how to wear those strange mortarboard hats with the blue tassels. When she got to me, Mrs. Percy stopped and said my cap was in a different box. She returned with a white graduation cap that had not a blue tassel, but a pink one.

“We had these made up special,” she said.

“I love it,” I said.

With everyone in place—from A to Z—we filed onto the athletic field and found our seats. Every spectator who was a parent was either snapping photos or taking video. I saw my parents and they waved.

“Welcome, everyone, to the hottest event in town,” Principal Finklestein said to a smattering of polite laughter.

But every eighth-grader cheered when he added, “Due to the heat, I've decided to keep my remarks brief today.”

I scanned the crowd for Kate and Piper who were seated with the N–Q group. I was ready, but not ready, for our big moment. Word had leaked out a bit after New York. Some people knew about Tomorrow's Leaders Today, and some knew that the three of us were in the Pink Locker Society. But to most people, it was all still at the rumor level.

“Just stride across the stage like you own the place,” Piper had told me.

“I'm just going to try not to trip,” I said.

After the academic awards and the athletic awards, it was our turn. Principal F. called us by name to the stage.

“Kate Parker.

“Piper Pinsky.

“Jemma Colwin.

“It's my pleasure to introduce, for the first time, this year's Pink Locker Society,” he said.

We all made it to the stage. I didn't trip. And people clapped—a good, long stretch of applause. I think my mother might have woo-hooed.

“We couldn't be prouder to have this fine organization at our school,” Principal Finklestein said. “It was recently recognized as a national model at the Tomorrow's Leaders Today conference.”

The audience, weary from the heat, gave another smattering of applause. We stood on the stage, ready to be dismissed from view.

“Oh, and I have one more announcement,” Principal F. said. “The Pink Locker Society made such an impression at the conference that Tomorrow's Leaders Today has invited these three girls to its international conference this July.”

More applause, this time a little more spirited, erupted from the crowd. I'm nearly certain I heard my mother woo-hooing that time. I felt proud that our presentation had won an award. I wondered if Forrest would get to go, too. Then Mrs. Percy approached the stage and whispered in the principal's ear.

“I just received word that the conference they'll be attending is in Paris, France.”

Again, the clapping and cheering continued. For a moment, I forgot who we were and what we were doing in the middle of the athletic field. WE WERE GOING TO PARIS!

After our group hug, Mrs. Percy guided us off-stage and pointed us to a few open seats. The three of us were seated right behind Clem Caritas, of all people. She spun around and said, accusingly, “OMG, Jemma. Why didn't you tell me?” I just shrugged.

“One last note on the Pink Locker Society,” Principal F. said. “Next year's members have already been selected and the advice service will be continuing into the next school year. Great job, girls.”

Piper sat speechless, able to do nothing but fan herself madly with her graduation program. It wasn't until much later in the evening that she started speaking French. Lots and lots of French.

 

Thirty-six

OK, so I wouldn't say that I never thought of Forrest on graduation day. But I am proud to say that I wasn't thinking of him nonstop, like I used to. My mind was buzzing about the PLS, our group trip to Paris, and the big graduation dance.

Since coming home from New York, Forrest hadn't texted nor had we had any major conversations. What did I expect? Or more precisely, what did I expect once I trained myself not to expect anything? I made myself a new soda tab bracelet with four new goals for the summer before high school started:

1. Keep running so that I can make the high school track team.

2. Be a great big sister. My mom was now two days away from the due date.

3. Keep in touch with Piper when we weren't at the same school anymore.

4. The pink tab: Be on call whenever the Pink Locker Society needed me. Mimi, Shannon, and Taylor had gratefully accepted their new positions, especially Taylor.

I wore no boy-related goal on my wrist. It felt a little lonely sometimes, but it was good not to be striving too hard for Forrest or twisting myself in a pretzel to like someone I didn't genuinely like as a boyfriend. Bet, also boyfriendless, was always there for me in situations just like this. We resolved not to be wallflowers (again) at the graduation dance, just like we had at the Backward Dance so many months ago. Kate and Piper were both going to the dance with dates. Bet and I were, as usual, dateless.

Dad drove us back to school for the dance. On the way, we used the backseat of the car as our makeup studio, where Bet applied some of her sparkly eye shadow on my waiting lids. Dad dropped us off in front of the school, where there was a moon bounce and an outdoor dance floor. The sun had set and the temperature fell so it felt warm, but not unpleasant. Good, I thought, I don't want all my sparkly eye shadow to melt right off.

Picnic tables were scattered around and each had a helium balloon centerpiece. Bet and I got ourselves something to drink and started to survey the crowd. The DJ was taking requests, which kept the dance floor full. But the moon bounce turned out to be the biggest draw. You wouldn't think eighth-graders would want to jump and bounce and do flips off the walls, but we did. Because the music speakers were positioned nearby, you could dance in there, too. Maybe without admitting it, we eighth-graders don't always feel like growing up and being mature. The line for the moon bounce wrapped around the dance floor and the refreshments table. And everyone was walking around barefoot because no shoes were allowed.

The moon bounce also took some of the usual dance pressure off. If we were all sweaty and jumping around like preschoolers, we didn't feel as much need to pair up. I wondered if high school students still liked moon bounces. I'm guessing if they did no one admitted it. So we bounced and bounced and, when we weren't bouncing, we were waiting in line for another turn.