Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
But I followed my stepfather’s directives, and enrolled at St. George High. It’s okay. It’s the local public school, and doesn’t cost money to attend, as long as you live in the neighborhood. Lionel’s mansion is within the catchment area, so in the mornings, I drive myself to high school and then come home in the afternoons to an empty house. It’s lonely, but things could be worse. At least I’ve gotten myself away from the chaos of Manhattan, even if I miss the city sometimes.
But even if I don’t pursue chaos, it seems that chaos pursues me. Sure, I felt a little bloated when I got up this morning, but I figured it could be the cheese fries and soda I had last night. Don’t get me wrong because Mrs. Musk cooked a delicious meal of guinea fowl and sautéed veggies, which I ate by myself in the elegantly appointed dining room. But a girl gets hungry late at night sometimes, so I decided to order some Domino’s as a midnight snack, and while the pizza went down easy, the fries did me dirty the next day. Especially when I got to school. My stomach hurt intermittently in the morning, and seemed to worsen as the hours passed.
But I managed to control it with Tums, or so I thought. Yet later in the afternoon during art class, I felt something drip between my thighs. Suddenly, I knew that the food wasn’t the problem at all. Instead, Aunt Flo had paid me a visit and quickly, I stood up and surreptitiously tugged at the heavy canvas painter’s smock draped over my shoulders.
“I’ll be right back!” I called to no one in particular. Then, with a merry wave, I scurried off to the women’s restroom, only to discover that it was far too late. Sure, the school has free tampons and maxi-pads for girls to use, but that’s not going to do me any good, seeing that there’s a tell-tale red splotch on the back of my white skirt. It wasn’t just a tiny red splotch either. It was a big ole blob, like a cherry tomato splattered on pristine snow.
Oh shit. What am I supposed to do? I briefly consider skulking home, but I need to retrieve my bag and art supplies from the classroom first. Even worse, the painter’s smock doesn’t hide my behind and my embarrassing “accident.” I suppose I could take the smock off, and tie it around my waist, but that seems highly peculiar. Seeing me dressed like a raggedy hobo will give everything away.
That’s when an idea strikes. Again, I admit that I wasn’t thinking clearly, whether from desperation, confusion, or the generally bloated depression that comes with a woman’s period. But I decide to stride back into the art room like nothing’s wrong. Then, I grab my paintbrush as well as some paint, and smile winsomely.
“I’m going out to the shed,” I announce merrily, again to no one in particular. “Be right back!”
Of course, not a head turns because the art crowd takes itself very seriously. Mrs. Cohen and Leandra continue to pore over a still life in the back, while the rest of the class sketches with almost painful concentration. Perfect. I scamper out of the classroom before making a left and quickly heading down a path to the back of the school where there’s a dilapidated shed. It’s next to the track, and they probably store all sorts of sports equipment inside. No matter. It’s a sad-looking thing, with gray peeling paint, rusted wood boards, and a sagging roof. I’ve heard more than one member of administration complain about the shed’s sorry state, and I’m here to solve their problem for them.
Smiling a bit, I take off my painter’s smock before throwing it on the ground. Then, wearing my normal clothes, I begin throwing paint joyously at the shed like I’m Jackson Pollack. It turns out the way you’d expect, with uneven splotches of color everywhere, including zig-zag black stripes, bright blobs of yellow, and smears of cerulean blue. Then, I up the ante and lift the entire can of red paint in my hands before hurling it with all of my strength onto the shed. Perfect. A huge splash of red splatters all over the door, and I use that opportunity to splash myself with some of the red paint too, before wiping my hands on my dress so that there are red streaky smears all over my clothes. Wah-la! Now, no one can tell that actually, the red splotch on my rear-end is a period stain, and not the result of my artistic endeavors.
Unfortunately, Coach Goni lumbers around the corner before catching sight of me. Our Director of Athletics is about four hundred pounds and shaped like a massive bowling ball. I don’t know how someone like him even walks, much less leads the school’s sports program, but maybe he was much more trim when he took the job twenty years ago. Regardless, I’m in big ca-ca now because when Coach Goni sees what I’m doing, he charges forth like a raging bull.