Free Period: Chapters 15–18

Madison had accosted me before math to help with applying for charity grants for the pads like we weren’t living in a place that could afford this if they cared about our health as much as they cared about sports.

And that’s how Gracie and I found ourselves standing on their front stoop Friday night, clutching our sleeping bags, makeup cases, and some existential quiz night dread.

We fudged our way through the family pleasantries on the way in.

I plopped down on a blue faux-fur beanbag chair and yelped at Isabella for almost giving me a lobotomy with her knitting needle.

“Probably planning her period revolution.”

“I don’t think anyone is entitled to the tale of my bloody pants. I shouldn’t have to perform to make them feel so I get my basic needs at school met. And someone shouldn’t have to announce which bathroom they use to make sure pads are in there.”

And as I watched her hands whirl through the yarn, it came to me.

Before I could come up with a good counterpoint, though, Gracie beat me to it again.

“We’re past the two-week mark, and here is a physical manifestation of your accomplishment,” Ms. Varone said, gesturing to the puffy-painted disappointment.

No, Helen, I’m not a dollar store administrator. The board can find a way to pay for this, and I can weather the irate parent emails for something worthwhile.

“I’m responsible for the entire school. For example, today I meet with school board members to prove the HVAC is kaput. Ah, we have state air quality standards to meet, so they must pay. Is it more important than something like adding another middle school sports team? Definitely, but there will be tons of parents screaming at the board in support if I ask for that.”

“I sent your transcripts over as requested. Now they’ve asked for your full file,” Ms. Varone said.

“Make sure you include the most colorful portions of my file for them. Use neon tabs. Make the misdemeanors pop,” I said, backing into the hallway where Gracie waited.

“At the beginning,” I said, “I was totally there on leaving it, remember? But now I care. You and my unruly uterus got me to care when I couldn’t see it myself. And Varone made it clear she’s not doing anything more and she even thinks it is a good idea.”

How much additional trouble could a lunch sit-in cause when we regularly got yelled at for excessive laughing and the boys could say whatever vulgar nonsense wormed through their brains without consequence?

“I’m sharing factoids and getting a little personal on why this issue matters,” I said, giving everyone stacks of the new glitterati handout I’d made from my own research on how it would cost kids who menstruate thousands more dollars over our lives to pay for pads, tampons, and ruined undies.

Right on cue, everyone wearing a Cuterus Uterus shirt got up and sat on top of their lunch tables, just like the Millers had asked.

“I’m an eighth grader, and I’m asking for—check that—I’m demanding period equity. Anyone who has a period should get whatever they need to take care of their period at school. No cost. No hassle. Maxi pads in every bathroom, for starters!”

Had it started automatically bending toward chaos, the way a flower turns to the sun?

And just like that, our peaceful protest that had turned into a spitball assault ratcheted up to a full-fledged food fight.

A student earnestly pouring their heart out, trying to lead others in changing the school, brought down by mayhem?

When your world is crushed into oblivion, do the specifics really matter?

“Can’t they retire those already?”

Gracie sputtered, “Or threw any food. And you’re always telling me to express myself, and today I used my voice for good.”

I climbed in and hunched over, so I could sit on the sill facing her.