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It’s August 2003, and the air in Sheltered Shrubs, Connecticut, still clings to the humid remnants of summer. Inside the band room at Lucky Junior High, the air conditioning struggles, humming a weak counterpoint to the cacophony of tuning instruments. The scent of old wood, brass polish, and adolescent sweat hangs heavy. Ginger Foutley sits hunched over her clarinet, her brow furrowed in concentration, or perhaps, dread. Band practice on the first week back is always a chaotic affair, a jarring return to routine after weeks of lazy mornings and late-night talks with Dodie and Macie.
Mr. Peterson, a man whose enthusiasm for music is only matched by his perpetually rumpled suit, taps his baton against his music stand. “Alright, alright, settle down, everyone! Let’s try ‘Stars and Stripes Forever’ again. From the top, please. And Ginger, remember your embouchure!”
Ginger nods, her cheeks already aching from the effort of holding the correct position. She takes a deep breath, the plastic mouthpiece cool against her lips. Around her, the flutes trill, the trumpets blare, and the percussion section clatters. The familiar melody begins, a patriotic march that always feels a little too grand for a Tuesday morning in a stuffy band room. Her fingers dance over the keys, muscle memory guiding them through the intricate notes.
Then, a strange, dull ache blossoms in her lower abdomen. It’s not the usual stomach rumble from skipping breakfast, nor the sharp jab of a side stitch from gym class. This is different, a low throb that seems to spread outwards, like a ripple in a pond. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, trying to ignore it, focusing on the sheet music. The notes blur slightly.
A new sensation follows, a subtle warmth, a dampness. It’s faint at first, barely noticeable amidst the blare of trombones and the squeak of a clarinet (not hers, thankfully). But then it intensifies, a distinct, undeniable wetness spreading against her underwear. A cold dread seizes her. Her heart begins to thump a frantic rhythm, completely out of sync with the Sousa march. No. It can’t be. Not now. Not here.
Her eyes dart down, discreetly, to her light-wash jeans. A small, dark stain is blossoming on the denim, just above her knee. It’s tiny, but horrifyingly visible against the pale fabric. Her breath hitches. The clarinet slips slightly in her trembling hands, producing a reedy, off-key squawk that makes Mr. Peterson wince.
“Ginger? Everything alright there?” he asks, peering over his half-moon glasses.
Panic surges, hot and overwhelming. Her face flushes scarlet. Everyone is looking. Or at least, it feels like everyone is looking. The music falters, then dies down to a hesitant murmur. Ginger’s mind races, a thousand thoughts colliding: This is happening. Oh my god. Everyone knows. I have to get out of here. Now. She pushes her chair back with a loud scrape that echoes in the sudden silence of the room. Her clarinet clatters to the floor.
“I… I have to go!” she blurts out, her voice thin and reedy, like her instrument just moments before.
She doesn’t wait for a response, doesn’t meet Mr. Peterson’s bewildered gaze or the curious stares of her classmates. She just bolts. Her legs pump, a desperate blur of motion. She shoves past the startled trombone player, skirts around the drum kit, and bursts through the heavy double doors of the band room. The hallway is blessedly empty, a long, linoleum-tiled tunnel stretching towards the sanctuary of the girls’ bathroom. Her lungs burn, her cheeks are hot, but she doesn’t slow down. Each step feels heavy, weighted by the growing dampness and the crushing embarrassment.
She fumbles with the cold metal handle of the bathroom door, pushing it open with a desperate shove. The fluorescent lights hum, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow on the rows of stalls. She rushes into the nearest one, slams the door shut, and locks it with a trembling hand. Leaning against the cool, graffiti-covered partition, she takes a shaky breath, finally allowing the tears that have been stinging her eyes to spill over.
Slowly, hesitantly, she pulls down her jeans. The sight confirms her worst fears. Her underwear is stained a deep, alarming red. It’s not just a spot; it’s a definite, undeniable stain. Her period. Her first period. Here. Now. In school. Without warning. Without a single pad or tampon.
A wave of nausea washes over her. What is she supposed to do? She can’t just walk out there. She can’t go to class. She can’t go home. She’s trapped. She pulls her jeans back up, the damp fabric sticking uncomfortably to her skin. Her mind cycles through every horror story she’s ever heard about first periods, about leaks and embarrassment and ruined clothes. She wishes her mom, Lois, were here. Or even Carl. Anyone.
Then, a name pops into her head, a beacon in the storm of her panic: Courtney Gripling. Courtney, who has a subscription to Teen Vogue and Seventeen , knows everything about everything, especially anything remotely related to "womanhood." Despite being half a year younger, Courtney seems to possess an encyclopedic knowledge of all things puberty-related, gleaned from endless hours of research and gossip.
Ginger pulls out her flip phone, her fingers clumsy as she navigates to Courtney’s number. The tiny screen glows faintly in the dim stall. She presses send, holding the phone to her ear, her heart pounding a frantic drum solo. It rings once, twice, three times. Come on, Courtney, pick up!
“Hello?” Courtney’s voice, bright and chirpy, finally answers.
“Courtney,” Ginger whispers, her voice cracking. “It’s me. Ginger.”
“Ginger! What’s up? Are you at school? I thought you had band practice.”
“I do. I mean, I did. Courtney, something… something happened.” Ginger takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I think… I think I got my period.”
A beat of silence stretches between them, then a high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek erupts from the other end of the line. “OH MY GOSH! GINGER FOUTLEY! NO WAY! YOU DID?!” Courtney’s voice is practically vibrating with excitement, so loud that Ginger has to pull the phone away from her ear. “This is HUGE! This is, like, a monumental moment! You’ve reached womanhood! Oh my gosh, I’m so excited for you!”
Ginger winces, pressing the phone back to her ear. “Courtney, I’m in the bathroom. I don’t have anything. I think I stained my jeans.” Her voice is still shaky, laced with humiliation.
“Oh, right! The practicalities!” Courtney’s tone shifts, becoming suddenly serious, almost clinical. “Okay, don’t move. Do you have any toilet paper? Wad some up, put it in your underwear. It’ll hold for a minute. Where are you? Which bathroom?”
Ginger explains her location. “But Courtney, what am I going to do? I don’t have a pad. Or a tampon. And I don’t know how to use a tampon!”
Another little squeal, quickly stifled. “Don’t worry! I’m on my way! I have a whole emergency kit in my locker! My mom, bless her, insists I be prepared for anything, even though I haven’t even started yet. She says a true Gripling is always ready. And don’t worry about the tampon, we’ll start with a pad. Tampons are, like, advanced level. I’ve watched all the videos, read all the pamphlets, and I even practiced with a… well, never mind that. Just stay put. I’ll be there in five!”
True to her word, less than fifteen minutes later, a rapid series of knocks sounds on the bathroom stall door. “Ginger? It’s Courtney! Open up!”
Ginger unlatches the door, and Courtney bursts in, a whirlwind of perfectly coiffed blonde hair and designer clothes. She carries a small, sparkly pouch. Her blue eyes, usually wide with innocence, are now alight with a mixture of intense curiosity and genuine concern.
“Oh, Ginger! You poor thing! Look at you, all pale. Don’t worry, it’s totally normal! Happens to, like, half the population!”
She kneels down, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, even though they are the only two people in the bathroom. “Okay, first things first. Let’s assess the damage.” She glances at Ginger’s jeans. “Hmm, a little spot. We can probably tie a sweater around your waist later. But for now, let’s get you sorted.”
Courtney unzips her sparkly pouch, revealing a treasure trove of feminine hygiene products. There are individually wrapped pads of various sizes, slender tampons with plastic applicators, even a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer and a travel-size pack of wet wipes.
“My mom says you can never be too prepared,” she repeats, almost reverently.
She pulls out a maxi pad, still in its wrapper. “Okay, so this is a pad. See? It’s got wings. The wings are important. They wrap around your underwear to keep it in place. You peel off this sticky paper here,” she demonstrates, carefully unwrapping it, “and then you stick it right in the middle of your underwear. Like this.” She holds it up, a pristine white rectangle, explaining each step with the precision of a seasoned surgeon.
Ginger watches, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and gratitude. Courtney, who hasn't even had a period herself, is explaining this with such confidence and detail. It's almost as if she's been waiting for this moment, not just for Ginger, but for her own eventual initiation. There's a flicker in Courtney's eyes, a tiny spark of something that looks suspiciously like envy, quickly masked by her enthusiastic helpfulness. She probably wishes she were the one getting her period right now, being the first to "reach womanhood" among their friends.
“Now, the important part,” Courtney continues, her voice hushed. “You want to make sure it’s far enough back to catch everything, but not so far back that it’s uncomfortable. And you change it every few hours, depending on your flow. You’ll figure out your flow. Everyone’s flow is different. Some people have a heavy flow, some have a light flow. You’ll know.”
Ginger takes the pad, her fingers still trembling slightly. Courtney steps back, giving her space, but her eyes remain fixed on Ginger, observing, analyzing. Ginger fumbles with the sticky backing, trying to align it correctly in her underwear. It feels awkward, bulky, and utterly alien.
“Okay, now for the tampon,” Courtney says, pulling out a slender, plastic-applicator tampon. “This is for when you’re swimming, or if you just don’t like the feeling of a pad. It goes inside. It’s a little trickier. You have to be relaxed. And you aim towards your lower back, not straight up. And there’s a string, see? You leave the string hanging out, so you can pull it out when you’re ready to change it. And never, ever forget to pull it out. That’s, like, rule number one.”
Ginger shakes her head. “No, no tampon. Not today. Just the pad.” The thought of putting something inside her is too much to process right now.
Courtney nods, understanding. “Totally fine! Pads are great for beginners. Now, how do you feel? Any cramps? My mom says Midol is excellent for cramps. I have some in my kit, just in case.”
Ginger feels a dull ache, but the immediate panic has subsided, replaced by a strange sense of relief and a little bit of awe at Courtney’s preparedness. “I’m okay. Just… shocked. And a little grossed out.”
“It’s not gross, Ginger!” Courtney says, a slight frown on her perfect face. “It’s natural! It’s beautiful! It means your body is working the way it’s supposed to. It means you’re growing up! This is, like, the first step to being a real woman!” She beams, a genuine, unadulterated smile. “And now we can talk about it all the time! We can compare notes! Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”
Ginger manages a weak smile. Fun? She’s not sure "fun" is the right word. But having Courtney here, so confident and knowledgeable, certainly makes it less terrifying. Courtney even offers her a spare pair of gym shorts from her locker, a pristine white pair that Ginger can wear under her jeans to provide an extra layer of protection, just in case.
As they walk out of the bathroom, Ginger’s steps feel lighter, despite the unfamiliar bulk between her legs. The world outside the stall seems less threatening now. She’s still embarrassed, still a little overwhelmed, but she’s also… something else. Changed. Different.
Courtney, ever the strategist, calls her mom’s assistant, instructing them to bring a fresh pair of jeans and a change of underwear to the school office. “And tell them it’s urgent, but discreet, please,” she adds, her voice firm.
Walking down the hallway, Ginger glances at Courtney, who is already planning their next "womanhood" discussion. Courtney chatters excitedly about different pad brands, the merits of regular versus super flow, and the importance of tracking cycles. Ginger just listens, a small, private smile forming on her lips. It’s not how she imagined this moment, not at all. No quiet talk with her mom, no gentle explanation. Instead, it’s a chaotic, public, and hilariously over-the-top introduction, courtesy of Courtney Gripling.
But as she walks, a new rhythm seems to settle within her, a quiet hum that’s different from the band music, different from the frantic beat of her panic. It’s the rhythm of change, of growing up, of stepping into something new and unknown. And for the first time, she doesn't feel entirely alone in it. She has Courtney, her self-appointed period guru, ready to guide her through every single step, whether she likes it or not. This is just the beginning.