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My stomach hurts. I ate too many pancakes. I turn onto my side, cradling my abdomen with my hands. It occurs to me to wonder where the promised police officer is. Will my father and I be arrested? I try to imagine that. My father and me in handcuffs, being led to a cruiser. My father and me sitting shackled side by side. It’s too weird to contemplate. What would we say to each other? And then there would be the drive to the police station. Warren would be waiting for us at the other end, a smirk on his face. He’d won, hadn’t he? And then my father and I would be separated, and I’d be led to a jail cell by a matron who looked like Mrs. Dean at school, thick all over. Would Charlotte be in a cell near me? Would we be able to speak to each other? Would we have to invent a code that we tapped through the walls? And why oh why did I eat so many pancakes? The cramps in my stomach are intense.

I think about my father, alone in the barn. Is he furious, kicking lumber and snapping tools down hard upon his workbench? Or is it worse than that? Is he sitting in his chair, in the Dad position, just staring out at the snow? If my stomach didn’t hurt so much, I think I would go out to him now. I don’t know what I’d say, but I’d try to tell him that I know he’s done the best job he could. That I don’t pretend all the time. That, actually, I’m usually pretty okay.

I get up to go to the bathroom. I vow never to eat pancakes again. It will be my New Year’s resolution: never eat pancakes. I stop at the sink and study my reflection in the mirror. My skin is white, and I look sick. I try to smile, but all I see is metal. I turn away from the mirror, unzip my jeans, and sit on the toilet.

My head snaps up. Is it possible?

I examine my underwear again.

It’s just a tiny stain, but it’s unmistakably blood.

Maybe it’s only coincidence. Or maybe it was the fight that brought it on. More likely it was simply time. But it’s hard, in those confusing and exhilarating initial moments, not to think of it as something Charlotte has passed on to me. I remember my mother and feel a pang, but it’s Charlotte I most want to tell.

I’ll tell my grandmother when she gets to the house. She might cry. And I’ll tell Jo the day after Christmas, when we go skiing. I imagine her squeal. Bit by bit I’ll let others know, or Jo will. My father will see the box of Kotex in the bathroom and think Charlotte left it there. He’ll put it away. I’ll take it out again and set it on the sink, giving him the hint. Eventually he’ll get the picture without my ever having to say a word. I wonder if there will be a moment when he’ll look at me differently, and if he does, if I will see it. I hope it doesn’t make him sad, sad for my mother who is not here to see me reach this milestone.

I have had enough sadness to last a lifetime.

I didn’t see Charlotte leave with the box of Kotex. I search the bathroom closet. There are squeezed-out tubes of toothpaste and little slivers of soap, but no Kotex. I walk into the guest room and open the closet door, and there on the upper shelf is the box, half-hidden behind a woolly blanket with a satin edge. I reach for the box and return to the bathroom, and though uninitiated, figure out the not-too-difficult process of securing a pad.

I look in the mirror again. I am a woman, I say to my reflection, trying it out.

Who am I kidding? I’m just a twelve-year-old girl waiting for a policeman to come and arrest her. I still have cramps, but knowing that I’m not going to be sick makes the pain more bearable. I try to remember what it is Jo always takes when she has cramps at school. I find some Motrin in the medicine cabinet and take two.

I hear a sound I would know anywhere. I know I have only sixty seconds to make it to the passenger seat, the amount of time my father always waits for the truck to warm up. I bolt from the bathroom and take the stairs two at a time. I put one arm into the sleeve of my jacket and stick my toes into the tops of my boots. With the jacket hanging