I look up to meet his eyes, and they’re dark blue, almost violet. I love that color so much, but hate that it only comes when he’s upset. “I’m okay, Ezra. Thank you for the jacket.”

I start to untie it, but he places a hand over mine.

“Keep it until you don’t need it,” he says, his voice scratchy with discomfort. “I’ll get it later. I know where you live.”

We chuckle.

“Yup, right across the street.” I smile, but squeeze his hand over mine. “Thanks, Ez. You always take care of me.”

“We take care of each other,” he says, his voice subdued when he looks up from our hands, his eyes intense. “Hazak, Hazak, Venithazek.”

It sounds like Hebrew, but I have no idea what it means. “What’d you say?”

“Be strong, very strong.” His fingers tighten on mine and he doesn’t drop his gaze or slide a hand in his pocket, or any of the other Ezra things he does when he’s unsure. “And we will strengthen each other.”

The words are seeds sinking deep into my soul, into my heart. They take root and bloom. We’ve taken care of each other our whole lives. I don’t know what to do with these feelings. What I feel for Ezra is as old as we are, and yet brand new. It’s familiar, but blushing and breathless.

“Mr. Stern, Miss Allen,” the vice principal calls from a few feet down the hall. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“I have a female issue.”

I’ve only had my period twice, but I’ve already discovered you only have to refer to it for men to start stumbling and looking uncomfortable.

“Well, yes.” He tugs at his tie and clears his throat. “You, um, do what needs to be done.”

He points to Ezra. “You don’t have a, um, problem like that, Mr. Stern. Get to class.”

“Yes, sir.” Ezra looks at me, a small smile on his lips. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yeah, later.”

With one final glance at the vice principal, I push through the restroom door. Thank God I’m the only one in here. I stumble into the very last stall.

Shoot!

I have no supplies. My bag is still in the classroom. I have no quarters to buy a tampon or pad from the machine. Mortification and helplessness bring tears to my eyes, but I swipe at them impatiently. The bathroom door swings open, and I stiffen, listen.

“Kimba?” It’s Mona’s voice. “You in here?”

“Last stall.”

I open the door to find her standing there holding my backpack.

“Thought you might need this,” she says with a tentative smile.

“Thanks.”

I accept the backpack and close the door again, rifling through the bag to find a tampon and pad. Once the business is done, I come out to wash my hands. Mona’s leaning against the counter.