Free Period: Chapters 10–11

It had been uttered fifty times in fifty different ways that night, and now everyone was resigned to silence.

I don’t know the ramifications of lying to a witch, even if she was technically an herbalist who sometimes argues with dead people.

“An equitable basket of products would have helped me when I started bleeding unexpectedly on Friday,” I said.

“If that’s what it takes, we will make the sacrifice. You are a brilliant girl. You have to know how much trouble you’re in. What if the school had pressed charges for your last prank?”

I thought about running right past the school, to the edge of town, and what it would mean to never stop, and how bad it would be for Gracie if I really did, and if it would suit my parents just as well as sending me to Sage Academy to be fixed.

The wind was knocked out of me, but my head was cradled by the soft turf.

“You’re advocating for period equity?”

He said the word like a normal person, not as if he was spitting out gristle.

I stopped and unzipped my sweatshirt to show off my homemade T-shirt: cartoon uterus in pink paint, one ovary holding a PERIOD EQUITY NOW sign, the other giving a thumbs-up, all on an old yoga top Gracie had snagged from her moms’ to-donate bin.

People like to think they’re getting the last of something, so I didn’t throw all my swag on the table at once.

I wrote what I’d learned from Madison in words actual humans use and added a lot more neon and sparkly embellishments.

“It is pinkeye, but the only thing contagious is my enthusiasm. See, I drew tiny glitterati uteruses on my lids with liquid black eyeliner and Punk Pink matte shadow. You are the first person to notice, so thank you,” I said.

I added the extras to the buffet behind the tables and reached to grab a handful of chicken wings.

“No, I’m a mirage. And those are not chicken cutlet sandwiches for you and your tall, sullen friend. And you,” she said, pushing me back and taking the entire bowl of wings while glaring at the grumbly man, “my tax dollars pay for this food. I prefer it goes to the children. Actually, I’ll keep these, they look pretty tasty.”

“Be gentle. She must have come from a funeral. Give her my condolences and lend her your fennel,” Carmella said and took a seat in the back row.

She was playing it cool, but I saw a telltale little upturn on the sides of Helen’s mouth.

They were all in my head anyway, but I find prior use of a gel pen is the best weapon against any in-the-moment brain farts.

Madison said through clenched teeth, “None of you are saying anything after the agenda snafu. Just look like you’re listening—Gracie—and you’re supportive—Helen.”

I felt myself lulled into it like a metronome on a piano.

Ms. Laurent of the Plaid Pants jutted out her chin and closed her eyes for a deeper nod at points of emphasis.

Grumbly Dude’s nod was a side-to-side motion engineered to convey maximum listening.

“Perfect, we’ll fundraise for a pilot program—” Madison hurried to say, but it was too late.

Michael F. gurgled.

“It was screwed up before we arrived, Madison. Before you even had the idea. They’ll put a picture of you standing at the podium in the town paper and congratulate themselves on how involved the students are here. And nothing will ever change.”

“Your first brush with politics,” she said.