get started on my

writing career?

You know,

Mari says,

sanitary pads.

Sanitary napkins.

Kotex.

Tampons.

Mari is loud

—proud.

Twelve and three-quarters,

four months older than me,

and proud of that, too.

What?

My voice swoops into the air

and my foot almost

slips off the pedal,

You mean . . .

She nods.

Yep. I started,

she says.

She grins at me,

triumphant.

I am a woman now.

Her purple hair

waves in the wind

like a flag.

The Womanhood Flag.

I don’t know

what you’re grinning about,

I say,

and smile too.

I don’t want that to ever happen.

I’m staying a girl all my life.

No blood for me,

thank you very much.

(I want to be

just a little girl

though truth be told

I don’t have that.

Not now.)

And like that

I remember.

Momma so mad.

Another baby,

she said.

But not for long,

she said.

I’m getting

rid of this one,

she said.

Like I should have

you two.

Now big drops of rain

fall from the sky.

Mari glances up.

Cross your fingers

it doesn’t rain too hard,

she says.

You know

I can’t get water in my ears.

Mari has tubes.

Not sure why.

But she’s not allowed to get

her ears wet.

If you ask me,

that’s too bad,

seeing we live close to rivers

and the ocean

and, to top it all off,

she has a pool.

It is gonna rain,

I say.

Look at those clouds.

The words come outta

my mouth

and right then

the sky opens up

wide and dumps

buckets of water on us.

We pedal, heads down.

Now I carry the lunch

and her womanhood

bag.

Mari tries

to keep her ears covered,

but one hand won’t

do for both sides of her head.

Cars plow through water,

splashing us.

Little rivers run on the street.

Rain streams down my face.

I am soaked clear through.

We move to the side of the road,

the whole world gray

like Florida becomes

in a good rain.

Mari pulls out a

sanitary napkin.

Put that away,

I say, looking

toward the road.

Somebody might see it.

You want me to go deaf ?

she says.

She plucks the filling from a

couple of pads

and puts a wad in each ear.

I’m ready now, let’s go.

Mari motions with her chin

and I can just see

cotton coming from her head

like her stuffing has come loose.

I laugh all the way to the river.

Not thinking about

Lizzie.

Not remembering

all those baby kittens.

And not one small thought

of the other baby

that might have been

a sister.

44.

This is last summer,

when Liz was happy.

Shh!

Liz whispered to me.

Stop that giggling.

Momma slept downstairs

after a long night.

All I see is your butt,

I said

and Liz laughed.

She turned around

and looked down from the attic

opening at me,

to where I waited below.

Shh,

she said again.