“The girl at concessions. I told her we had an unprecedented emergency, and she has to clean up the bathroom, so…” Wynezra shook the tampon like a maraca. “One of us needs to stick this puppy in the doghouse. Since you’re the one bleeding, I’ll let you make that decision.”

I evaluated my hands and the added length of my French-manicured fingernails. I would have started crying again, but my tear ducts had been milked dry, so mostly, I just made the ugliest face imaginable.

“Right,” said Wynezra. “I’ll do it.”

It actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I was expecting pain, and horrible invasiveness, and maybe something vaguely pagan and ritualistic. But I hardly felt a thing. When Wynezra told me it was over and to pull my panties up, I glanced down and there was nothing but a string dangling down there. I was basically a human party popper, but that was the weirdest part of it, and it was purely aesthetic.

“I was expecting to feel more,” I admitted.

“It might be your first rodeo,” said Wynezra, “but it’s not this vagina’s.”

After that ordeal, we argued over which of our parents/guardians was the worst option to call for a ride.

“You can call Carol if you want,” said Wynezra. “I’m just saying, she’ll make our lives a living hell every second of the drive.”

“But she’ll pick up?” I said.

“Reluctantly.”

“Okay. Well. I don’t think my parents will pick up.”

So, we created an order to our call list that ranked the pleasantness of the pickup over the likelihood that they would actually pick up the phone. I had Wynezra call Dad. No answer. I had her call Mom. Again, no answer.

“Are they really that busy?” said Wynezra. “I mean, the hospital knows they have kids, right?”

“They might not be—strictly speaking—busy with work,” I said.

“Oh?” she said. And then her eyes widened. “Oh! You think they’re doing it with other people?”

“I know they’re doing it with other people.”

I went on to explain—in NC-17–rated detail—how I knew that.

“Damn,” said Wynezra. “Derek’s dick sounds like a national treasure.”

“Can we please not talk about Derek’s dick?”

“Hey, you were the one going into graphic detail. I’m just expressing my admiration. But, um, that sucks about your parents. Do you think they know about… you know… each other?”

“I don’t know how they couldn’t know. They work at the same hospital.”

“Damn,” Wynezra said again. “Your parents need to sell the TV rights of their lives. This would make for a highly watchable hospital drama. And hey, you and Willow could be the side story that rakes in the younger audience demographic!”

“I’m going to call Carol now,” I said.

I called Carol.