Ava’s smile fell. “So skip it. This is the only hour that I have free this week.”
I stared down at my sandwich, the jelly oozing over the side of the crust. I felt bad that Ava was so busy all the time. And I was the only one she really hung out with outside school. But I couldn’t just drop my plans when she finally had an hour free.
“I can’t,” I said. “This is an important meeting.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll just go with you, then. At least we’ll be hanging out together. What is the meeting for? The newspaper?”
I chewed on my lower lip. “Um, no. You know what I have on Wednesdays.”
Ava’s face reddened. “Oh. The club I’ll never get to join.”
“That’s not true,” I protested.
Ava had been frustrated lately that she hadn’t gotten her period yet. She claimed that she was the “last eighth grader on earth” without it, but obviously that wasn’t true.
I reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “Remember what your mom said. Everyone has their own timetable. And because you’re so active, and your mom got hers later, you’ll probably get yours later too.”
Her eyes glistened. “I just feel like such a weirdo. Everyone else is going through this thing together, and I’m the outsider. You’ve had yours for years!”
“I haven’t had it that long,” I said. “And believe me, it’s not that great. Once you get it, you’ll wish you hadn’t been in such a hurry. We’re talking cramps, zits, bloating, mood swings. Sometimes I look in the toilet and it’s like I sacrificed a goat.”
She burst out laughing. “Stop! Oh my gosh, stop.”
“Feel better?” I asked.
She nodded. “Except now my cheeks hurt from laughing.”
I felt a swell of pride. I’d taken a friend from hurting to laughing. I’d done that with my own words. And after school the Red Club would make Julia feel better too.
CHAPTER 4
AS SOON AS THE LAST bell rang, I hopped up from my seat and hurried to the school library. My friend Cee Butler was already there, her feet propped up on a desk. Her hair fell in long black braids, with one of the front ones wrapped in purple. A book about business marketing covered most of her face.
Even though the Red Club never technically had presidents, Cee ran the meetings this year. Cee’s real name was Cynthia, but we’d started calling her CEO a couple of years ago when she started her own business. Along the way that got shortened to Cee-O and then eventually just Cee. She didn’t mind the nickname. She said it was quicker to say than Cynthia and therefore more efficient.
I dropped my backpack on the floor and took the seat beside her. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—how’d you do at that garage sale?” Cee bought old jewelry at garage sales and cleaned it up. Then she took pictures of the pieces on cute models with flattering filters and resold it for much more online.
“Pretty well,” Cee said from behind the book. “I got a brooch for a dollar and resold it the same day for twenty. It’s amazing what people will pay if you use the word ‘vintage’ instead of ‘old.’ ”
Cee had an eye for business and fashion. I would never know if a random piece of jewelry on a yard-sale table was worthless trash or treasure. But she had an instinct for it. She’d take a dowdy-looking necklace, pair it with just the right blouse to bring out its “potential” in the photo, and boom—sale.
She lowered the book just enough for me to see her big brown eyes. “I heard you had a busy day. Saved the new girl from embarrassment and got in trouble for the article.”
I shrugged. “Mild trouble. I’m not worried about it. It’s more important that you can trust the food you’re given.”
“Thanks, Riley. I can always count on you.” Smiling, she shoved the book into her bag and brought her feet down from the desk.
Stella strolled in with Camille Flores beside her, whispering in each other’s ears. They were best friends, though they argued as much as they got along. They were opposites in many ways, but the Red Club had brought them together. The Red Club was always building bonds and forming friendships.
Stella, fashion queen, had fiery red hair against her pale face. Camille’s long black hair hung to her waist and swished back and forth when she walked. She had tan skin and the perfect bone structure of her mother, who’d been a model in Brazil before she came to the United States. But Camille wanted no part of the modeling world. She wanted to be a stand-up comedian, which raised eyebrows when she told people—especially grown-ups. But she was legitimately funny, and I thought she could totally do it.
A bunch of other girls arrived, but still no Julia.
“Is the new girl coming?” Stella asked, holding her hand out to examine her manicure. “If anyone needs some Red Club today, it’s her.”
“You didn’t exactly help make her day shine with your comment about her clothes,” I pointed out.
Stella looked up at me. “Well, I was right, wasn’t I? If she had followed the rule, she wouldn’t have had to deal with Brody taunting her all day and calling her ‘Bloody Julia.’ ”
Ugh. He did? All day? I gritted my teeth.
As if we had conjured him by saying his name, Brody and one of his friends loudly stopped near the open double doors to the library. His friend, in full soccer gear, was holding a towel to his profusely bleeding face.
Brody ran a hand over his spiky black hair and said, “Cool, man. You really ate it out there. Let me see.”
The boy tentatively lifted the towel.
Brody reared back. “Wow! Bloody nose and a missing tooth! Oh man.”
They continued toward the nurse’s office while Brody’s laughter carried down the hall.
My hands curled into fists. “Does anyone else see the irony in that?”
Cee snorted. “Blood from a boy’s nose and mouth in a horrific injury is ‘cool.’ But blood from a girl in a natural monthly process is disgusting.”
“And shameful,” I added. “He shamed her all day. For something normal and natural.”
A giggling group of seventh graders piled in and sat in the back. Julia snuck in behind them, head down, eyes shifting around nervously. I knew she wouldn’t want to be the center of attention, so I didn’t mention anything about her induction.
“Call to order,” I whispered to Cee.
Nodding, Cee stood and clapped her hands. “Good afternoon, Red Club members. Who wants the floor?”
A normally quiet sixth grader named Kristy who’d been inducted last month raised her hand. “My cramps are so bad. I feel like there’s an angry little man in my stomach, just repeatedly punching my uterus.”
“My angry little man squeezes,” another girl said. “Like my insides are his stress ball.”
“Have you tried a heating pad or a hot-water bottle?” Stella asked. “It really helps.”
“Sure, when you’re at home,” Kristy said. “But I can’t whip out a heating pad in the middle of English class.”
“Or can you?” Camille stood and pulled something out of her backpack. “I just put a couple of these in the special locker. My mom bought them for me, and they worked so well I knew we had to have a stash for the club.”
She passed them forward, and I took a look. It was like a big sticker. “You just pull the back off and stick it on?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Camille said. “It heats up and stays warm for a long time. You can’t see it under your clothes, either.”
I handed it to Kristy, whose face had lit up. “Cool, thanks! This is going to help.”
A warm feeling spread through my chest. That was exactly what this club was for—helping one another. I loved it so much. And I always learned something new at every meeting. Until a minute ago, I hadn’t even known stick-on heating pads existed.
“Anyone else?” Cee asked.
From the back, a tiny hand popped up into the air. Julia’s hand.
“Julia,” Cee said, pointing. “We’re all here if you need to vent abou
t today.”
“Um, no,” she said, blushing. “I just have a question.”
“Go for it,” Cee said. “You can say anything here.”
Julia’s face turned even redder. “Um, my mom says you have to be older to use a tampon. Do any of you use tampons?”
Stella piped up. “Of course! Listen, you totally want to use tampons. Pads feel like diapers.”
“But pads are easy,” Camille said. “I’m scared of tampons.”
Stella rolled her eyes. “They’re not scary. You can’t even feel it if it’s in right. And you can go swimming.”
“It’s October!” Camille said. “No one is going swimming.”
“Guys, guys,” Cee cut in. “I appreciate your Team Pad and Team Tampon enthusiasm, but there is no one right choice. And it’s for Julia to decide, not us.”
“Anyone else poop more when they have their period?” a seventh grader, Paige, blurted. Her friends giggled beside her. “I feel like I have the pooponic plague.”
A few other girls laughed nervously. But I’d sat in so many of these meetings over the last two years that I’d heard it all. I’d spent the first year listening and learning, and now I could give back.
Stella gagged. “TMI, Paige. C’mon, gross.”
I raised a finger in the air. “No, not gross! That’s the point of this club. It’s where we can ask questions and talk about this kind of stuff and not be judged. Not be called gross.”
“Riley’s right,” Cee said. “It’s all natural. And yes, I poop a little more during Shark Week.”
Stella rolled her eyes as if this was all a bit too uncouth for her. But at the same time, she had the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. After all, if she didn’t like the club, she wouldn’t keep coming back. Membership wasn’t forced on anyone. Most girls just came to meetings now and then, when they needed some support. Stella was here every week.
“Anyone else?” Cee asked.
“Can I ask a non-period question?” said a small voice from the back. It was a girl from my grade named Hazel. I didn’t know her well. This was only her second meeting. She was quiet and artsy. I didn’t know who she hung out with.
“Of course!” Cee said enthusiastically. “We’re here for support, for anything.”
Hazel took a deep breath. “Last night, my parents told me that they’re separating. They’re setting me up with, like, an adult professional to talk to, but I would also like to talk to someone my own age who has been through this.”
“I have,” Julia said. “That’s part of why I moved here.”
“Could we…?” Hazel’s voice trailed off.
“Do you have first or second lunch?” Julia asked.
“First,” Hazel said. “Though I usually just eat in the library.”
“Eat with me. I’d love to talk to someone who understands.”
Hazel gave a huge smile, and Julia matched it.
I felt a burst of pride. This was why the Red Club was so powerful. It wasn’t just about periods. It was about supporting one another.
“Anyone else?” Cee asked.
Stella raised her hand. “I’d just like to remind everyone that the dance committee is still looking for volunteers to decorate the gym. Anyone interested?”
Stella often used Red Club meetings as recruitment opportunities for her numerous other clubs. When no one raised their hand, she raised her voice. “The dance is next week, people! The theme is Falling into Autumn, and—”
Camille snorted. “What out-of-touch teacher came up with that dumb theme?”
Stella narrowed her eyes so hard, I thought flaming arrows would dart out of them. “I came up with the theme. And it’s going to be beautiful.” She stomped her foot on the floor for emphasis.
“Anything else?” Cee asked. After a few beats of silence, she picked up a book and lightly banged it on the table like a gavel. “Then this meeting of the Red Club is adjourned. Till next week!”
Everyone grabbed their backpacks and piled out the door.
“See you tomorrow!” Cee called to me over her shoulder.
“Bye!” I hiked my backpack up on one shoulder.
Julia approached me in the hall. “Hey, Riley. I just wanted to thank you for inviting me into the group. When that happened earlier today…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head.
“Try not to worry about it. Brody will be busy making someone else’s life hell soon enough.”
She smirked. “It helps knowing I have you guys. My mom isn’t always willing to talk about this stuff.”
“Same here,” I said with a sigh.
“I wish they had a club like this at every school. I had so many friends at my old school who could have really used a Red Club. I hope you guys know how lucky you are.”
I bumped her with my hip. “Well, you’re one of us now, so you’re lucky too.”
She smiled. “How did the Red Club get started anyway?”
“None of us know. It seems to have been around forever.” I explained, “I got my period early in sixth grade. I had a friend from the newspaper, Tonya, who was in eighth. She was the Cee of Red Club back then. So she told me about it.”
“How did the other girls find out?” Julia asked.
I tapped my chin. “Let’s see. Stella went to the nurse to get something for cramps, and later that day there was a note in her locker. Stella told some of her friends. I told Cee. Lots of girls already knew about it from older sisters.”
“And then it just spreads?” she asked.
I nodded. “By the end of sixth grade, all the girls knew about the club—whether they could join yet or not. It probably happens like that every year.”
“Like a passed-down tradition,” she said.
“Totally. A tradition you’re now a part of!”
Her smile took over her entire face but then quickly fell. “Oh no.”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Brody strutting toward us, back from escorting his friend to the nurse’s office.
“Well, well,” he yelled from down the hall. “Did I miss the Bled Club meeting?”
“Keep it moving, Brody,” I snapped. “I’m sure there’s a vulnerable sixth grader somewhere who you haven’t picked on yet.”
“But what if I’d rather pick on Bloody Julia?” he said with a sneer as he walked past.
I should have flung one of my snappy comebacks. Or, even better, ignored him. But as Julia’s face contorted to hold back tears, something else happened instead. My foot took on a life of its own, separate from my rational brain, and edged itself into Brody’s path. He tripped, his arms flailing out as a strangled cry escaped from his mouth. He landed on the floor with a hard slap as his hands broke his fall. And then, because now even my mouth was betraying my brain’s signals… I laughed.
Brody scrambled up quickly, unhurt. But at my uncontrolled laughter, his face turned bright red. He pointed a finger at me and promised, “You’ll pay for that.”
As he staggered away, I looked down at my traitor of a foot. That wasn’t me. I fought with words, not body parts! And then I glanced at Julia. Just a minute ago she’d been full of happiness and gratitude. Now she looked scared.
CHAPTER 5
I SET FOUR PLATES DOWN on the dining room table as something in the living room caught my eye. Our house had an open floor plan. You could stand in the kitchen and basically see everything on the first floor. And right now my little brother, Danny, was sneaking up toward my dad, who was sitting innocently in his recliner reading a book. Danny grinned at me, and I knew exactly what was coming next. As he reached my father, he aimed his butt at his face and let one rip.
“Ugh!” Dad waved his hand in front of his face. “Don’t start a war you can’t win, son. I had broccoli with lunch. Revenge will be served warm and smelly.”
My mom looked up from her laptop on the couch and shook her head. “There’s no decency in this house. What if we’d had guests over?”
Dad, still waving his hand,
said, “We wouldn’t have a fart war if we had people over.”
“You shouldn’t have a”—she paused, skipping over the word she couldn’t even bear to say—“war like that at all. You go into the bathroom and do that in private. Nobody needs to hear about it.”
As much as I thought my father and brother’s fart wars were disgusting, I was on Team Dad here. He shared an office with his assistant. He had to hold those things in all day. At night, in the comfort of his own home, he should be able to let loose.
I loved my mom, but she was a delicate flower. In English class, we’d had to read this book from the 1800s, and there was a character who fainted all the time on her fainting couch, from the slightest thing. And I thought, Hello, Mom. Fancy meeting you here in this old British novel.
That was the main reason why I was so thankful for the Red Club. Mom never sat with me and had any kind of talk—about periods or whatever. She’d signed the permission slip for me to get the talk at school and figured that was enough. And sure, the school did an okay job of telling us what to expect. But questions pop up later, when you’re in the middle of things. And I never felt comfortable asking my mom those questions, because she’d made it clear she didn’t like “talk about things that should be private.”
When Cee got her period, her mom celebrated her “womanhood” and baked her a cake. A cake! When I told my mom that I had received my first visit from Cousin Red, she nodded grimly and said, “The lower cabinet in the bathroom has supplies.” That was it. No words of wisdom. Certainly no celebration of womanhood. It was treated like a shameful secret.
The Red Club let us talk about anything. We supported one another. We were more than just a locker with emergency pads. We were a sympathetic ear, a hug, a high five. We were whatever a member needed that day.
A timer in the kitchen dinged, and Dad jumped up from his seat. “My delicious masterpiece is ready!”
My family loved routine. Every night, Mom and Dad alternated who cooked. Then we’d play our game while we ate at the table. Danny and I took turns doing the dishes. Then we all sat in the living room together, even though we did separate things. I usually did my homework. Dad sat in his favorite chair and read one of his mystery novels. Danny played games on the iPad. And Mom watched house shows: buying houses, remodeling houses, decorating houses—she watched them all. She claimed that it helped in her job as a real estate agent, but I thought she’d still watch them no matter what her career was. She was a home-show addict.
Revenge of the Red Club Page 2
