girl stuff. Page 14

  They looked at her like they weren’t so sure it did.

  “Oh my dog, look—” Ruthie shouted. She was pointing at a boy lying on the curb across the street, his skateboard rolling down the sidewalk.

  Will!

  And he was injured!

  Drew’s heart began to gallop. Her hands began to shake. She had to help him!

  “Coming!” She looked both ways and darted across Fontana Avenue.

  Now, as she stood above him, Will waved her away like a smelly sock. “I’m fine.”

  “Says you. But I need to rule out a spine injury. Can you wiggle your toes?”

  “I said I’m fine,” Will insisted, straining to sit. “I just scraped my back.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” She crouched down behind him and slowly, carefully, lifted him upright. “Why weren’t you wearing a helmet?”

  “On my back?”

  Drew laughed at the visual. “It wouldn’t be the worst idea. You really are accident-prone.” Then, returning to her nurse voice, said, “Would you mind lifting up your shirt so I can take a look?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Will reached back, grabbed the bottom of his shirt, and winced.

  “Looks like you hurt your arm too.”

  He groaned.

  Upon investigation, Drew concluded that he had a minor abrasion. He had lost about one cc of blood, which wasn’t enough to cause dizziness or warrant a transfusion, but the wound did need to be cleaned and sealed. But how?

  Drew searched her backpack for a napkin or a tissue, but all she found was a binder, her dirty PE uniform, one bran muffin, and the period purse Fonda gave her, which she was using as a pencil case.

  Period purse!

  “Fonda!” Drew called urgently. “I need you. STAT!”

  Fonda and Ruthie raced to her side, sleeves rolled and ready to help.

  “Do you have your period purse?”

  Without hesitating, Fonda dug inside her backpack and slapped it into Drew’s open hand.

  “Do you need any essential oils?” Fonda asked.

  “No.”

  “Reece’s Pieces?”

  “Yes,” Drew said, opening her mouth so Fonda could drop a few in.

  “You guys,” Will said. “I’m fine.”

  “Sir, try to relax,” Drew said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “Sir?” He chuckled. “What is happening here?”

  Ignoring him, Drew opened the purse, and as she had hoped, there was a giant maxi pad inside. She held the sanitary cotton slab against his scrape, pressed the sticky strip against his shirt, and applied direct pressure to the wound.

  “I think I’m good,” Will said, standing.

  “You got it?” Drew asked, taking his arm and directing it toward the pad. “Keep holding it until you get home.”

  “Whatever,” he said, limping toward his board.

  “Will!” Drew called.

  He turned around like an arthritic grandfather.

  “I’m sorry,” Drew said.

  “For what?”

  “Saying I wouldn’t cross the road for you. I would. I did!”

  His sparkly smile returned. “Yeah. I guess you did. Thanks.”

  Will didn’t reach for her hand. He didn’t compliment Drew on her grace under pressure. But he was looking at her the way he did on Ava G.’s back porch, and that was even better. It meant that the story between Drew and the boy with a maxi pad on his back wasn’t over. That maybe it was just getting stah-ted.

  chapter twenty–eight.

  “WAIT,” WINFREY SAID. “He really walked down the street with a maxi pad stuck to his back?” She couldn’t get enough of the story, and neither could Amelia. Why else would they be in the living room, sharing a pizza with Fonda, Drew, and Ruthie on a Friday night? They had outfits to plan, parties to attend, hearts to break.

  “Hey,” Amelia said, reaching for her third slice. “What did the pad say to the fart?”

  “Dunno,” said the girls.

  “You are the wind beneath my wings.”

  “What is Will’s favorite food?” Winfrey asked. “Pad Thai noodles!”

  Fonda laughed so hard she almost choked on a mushroom. “What did Will’s mom say when he stayed out past curfew?” she asked. “You’ve been a paaaad boy.”

  “What’s Will’s favorite movie?” Ruthie asked. “Paddington.”

  “Come on, guys, stop,” Drew said. “I feel pad for him.”

  Fonda thought she was going to puke laughter right there on the shag rug. Instead, she felt a little trickle of wetness leak out of her body and into her underwear.

  It was happening. Her period was actually happening! She’d heard that being near an active menstruator might trigger her flow, but who knew talking about maxi pads would have the same effect?

  “Be right back!” Fonda announced as she hurried to the bathroom, her last trip as a girl. When she emerged, she’d be a woman, worthy of facials by Katrine, snickerdoodles for dinner, and her sisters’ secrets. Her mother would teach her how to use a tampon, and next time she hung out with the Avas, she could claim cramps for real!

  Door locked and bright lights on, Fonda untied her sweatpants, then paused to commemorate her final moment as a child. She took three deep breaths and, on the fourth, pulled down her pants and—

  “Huh?” Her underwear was a teeny-bit wet, except the wet wasn’t red. Was that even possible? Fonda performed an investigatory wipe; all she saw was a faint trace of yellow.

  As it happened, the trickle of blood she’d felt was really a trickle of joy, because sometimes joy made her pee a little.

  Had the false alarm happened last month, last week, or even yesterday, Fonda would have shamed her body for being too slow to join the P club. Today all she did was wash her hands and fluff her curls. It was hardly the opportunity she had in mind, but it was golden nonetheless.

  The next morning, after everyone went home, Fonda pulled the vision board out from under her bed and began tearing off the pictures. She pulled off the fancy outfits, the red circle, Poplar Middle, and even the fortune she had taped to the top.

  The only image she kept was of her, Drew, and Ruthie laughing on the grass, because it was the only one that mattered.

  Period.

  acknowledgments.

  If you made it this far, that means:

  You genuinely enjoyed reading Girl Stuff and don’t want it to end.

  You’re grounded or sheltering in place and are super bored.

  The Wi-Fi is down.

  You contributed to this novel and are wondering if I had the decency to thank you.

  Regardless of the reason, I’m happy you’re here. It’s important to acknowledge the brilliant people who help me turn half-baked ideas into books. If not for them, you’d be reading a stack of tearstained Post-it Notes.

  Jennifer Klonsky, president and publisher at Putnam Young Readers, is the North Star and champion of this series. Her vision was unwavering, and her sense of humor is next-level. We’re talking zero fake laughs when she’s in the room. Zeeeero.

  Thank you, Jen Loja, president of Penguin Young Readers, for your endless support.

  My friends and longtime collaborators at Alloy Entertainment also deserve top billing. Josh Bank, Sara Shandler, and Lanie Davis—you are the best in the biz. Your genius and guidance are invaluable; the laughter is a calorie-burner. My love and gratitude run deep.

  Thank you to the deal makers: Richard Abate, my badass agent, shrink, and confidant of eighteen years. FUMP. James Gregorio, my velvet-voiced lawyer. And Romy Golan, for getting these books into foreign countries and making it seem like I can write in multiple languages.

  Thank you, Olivia R
usso, Christina Colangelo, Kara Brammer, Carmela Iaria, and Alex Garber, for your PR and marketing genius. You are why this novel has been read.

  Thank you, Jessica Jenkins and Judit Mallol, for this fabulous cover. Thank you, Suki Boynton, for making the inside look equally fabulous. Copyeditors Ana Deboo, Jacqueline Hornberger, and Cindy Howle probably had you thinking I aced grammar in school. I didn’t. They did.

  Thank you, Caitlin Tutterow, for making it all run so smoothly.

  Thank you, JJ Hutcheon, for always weighing in when I need you. Thank you to the middle school girls in my Laguna Beach Clique Club. You inspire me every day, and I am wildly honored to know you.

  Lastly, thank you to the voices in my head. Thirty-five books later, and you’re still showing up. Don’t ever stop.

  Xoxo Lisi

  about the author.

  Lisi Harrison worked at MTV Networks in New York City for twelve years before writing the #1 bestselling Clique series. That series has sold more than eight million copies and has been on the New York Times bestseller list for more than two hundred weeks, with foreign rights sold in thirty-three countries. Alphas was a #1 New York Times bestseller, and Monster High was an instant bestseller. She is currently adapting her Pretenders YA series into a narrative podcast for Spotify and writing a new middle-grade series called The Pack. Lisi lives in Laguna Beach, California, and is either working on her next Girl Stuff novel or hiding in the pantry eating chips.

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