Blood. Everywhere.

I wanted to cry.

No, I didn’t want to cry. If I cried, everyone would hear me.

I couldn’t help it. I cried.

“Are you okay in there?” a voice called to me from the other side of the door of the restroom stall I occupied.

“I’m fine,” I called back from inside the stall, unable to hide the desperation in my voice. “Just a headache. I’m fine.”

It was just my luck. Less than two weeks had passed since I transferred to this new school. I hadn’t made a single friend yet. I’d been eating lunch alone in the computer lab while surfing the six websites allowed through the “kid-safe” internet filter. I had actually just fallen into a Webster’s Dictionary rabbit hole of words related to the word “pathetic,” when I felt a strange, warm sensation in my crotch.

I had gotten my first period about a month ago, over the summer, so I had no idea I was supposed to wear preemptive feminine protection at school. Shit, between all the stuff we had to do to get me registered at this new school, and my abysmal first two weeks, I’d completely forgotten the disturbing appearance of my first period last month.

Now, I was sitting in the bathroom, and the bell was about to ring for everyone to get to their fifth-period class following lunch. The crotch of my panties, and the back of my blue skinny jeans, were soaked through with a ghastly splotch of blood the size of my fist. There was no way I’d make it to the nurse’s office without at least one person seeing me. I was doomed.

Rumors of my bloody mishap would spread fast. I’d never have any friends at this new school, or whatever high school I went to next year. I’d be branded the “gross girl.” I’d be a loner for the rest of my days. I’d probably be better off just waiting in this restroom stall until school let out in about two hours. No, that wouldn’t work. I’d have to wait until all the sports teams and after-school clubs had let out. That wouldn’t be for another four or five hours.

“Did you bleed through your pants?” the same voice asked.

My stomach ached as I realized this person probably saw me walk into the stall. She was probably going to go run and tell her friends how the new girl was in a restroom stall, crying over her gross panties.

“Here,” she said.

I flinched as a large black T-shirt flew over the door of the bathroom stall and landed in my lap. I quickly scooped it up so it wouldn’t accidentally come in contact with my bloody pants.

“That should cover your ass enough for you to make it to the nurse’s office. And take this, too,” she said, holding her chubby, freckled hand under the door.

I grabbed the pad she was holding, then quickly attempted to place the T-shirt back in her outstretched hand. “Thank you, but I can’t take your shirt.”

She drew her hand back swiftly, and I tightened my grip on the shirt to keep it from dropping on the grimy floor. “Don’t feel too grateful. The only reason I had that shirt on me is because I was taking it home to wash. It’s the undershirt I use for Phys Ed.”

I tentatively brought the shirt to my face and inhaled. My nose crinkled at the smell of grass and sweat. Laying the shirt over my shoulder, I cleaned myself up and stuck the pad over the bloody stain on my panties. Then, I pulled the plain black shirt over my pink Paramore T-shirt. I had never felt so cool in my life, wearing a complete stranger’s plain shirt.

I never had trouble making friends. I had trouble keeping them. I finally found a group of friends I could settle in with last year, then we had to move out of our Brooklyn apartment to a shitty five-floor walk-up in the Bronx because my mom couldn’t afford the “criminally sky-high Brooklyn rent,” as she called it.

I peeked around the edge of the door, making sure we were alone, before I stepped out of the restroom stall. The red-haired girl standing by the sinks was at least six inches taller and forty pounds heavier than I was. She wore white canvas sneakers, blue skinny jeans, and a striped gray and black T-shirt, which was too long, even on her, as the hemline stopped mid-thigh. Glancing down at the shirt I’d just put on, I realized the hemline skimmed the tops of my knees.

“You’re in my Algebra class,” the girl said, turning back to the mirror and leaning over the sink to get a closer look as she plucked her thin ginger eyebrows.

I made my way to the sink and began washing my hands. “Am I?” I replied, knowing full well she sat two rows away from me in Mr. Caldwell’s sixth-period Algebra class.

She chuckled. “Uh…yes. You’re the one who laughed the loudest when Caldwell put that shitty word problem on the board about the bakery that used math to figure out why they ended the day with too many leftover apple pies, and I blurted out it was because I didn’t work there.”

I laughed again at the joke, recalling how funny I thought it was that a girl our age would make fun of her weight in front of a classroom. Then, how mortified I was when I accidentally let out a loud witch-like cackle and everyone turned toward me, and suddenly I became the brunt of the joke.

“Oh, yeah,” I replied, regaining my composure. “Thanks again for the shirt. I’ll wash it and bring it back to you tomorrow.”

She looked at my reflection in the mirror and raised her eyebrows. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Oh, shit. I meant Monday. I’ll bring it back on Monday.”

She laughed and refocused her attention on her eyebrows. “Where do you live? I can pick it up this weekend.”

I thought of the rundown apartment we’d moved into a month ago and how there were still unpacked boxes stacked up in the hallway. We had to turn sideways to pass them.

“I…I can take it to your house. Where do you live?” I asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible as I yanked a few paper towels out of the dispenser to dry my hands.

She bent over and tucked her tweezers into the red and black backpack on the floor. “Yeah, I don’t live in a house. I live in a janky shithole on Belmont.”

I chuckled. “Me, too. Well, not on Belmont. We’re one street over on Hughes. We just moved in last month.”

“Even better,” she replied, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulder and sliding a silver flip phone out of her jeans pocket. “What’s your number?”

I averted my gaze as I tried to think of a lie for why I didn’t have a cell phone, but for some reason, I didn’t want to lie to this girl. “I…don’t have a cell phone. My mom can’t afford it.”

She didn’t hesitate at all at this response as she then asked for my home phone number, which I gave willingly. “So…what name should I put on your contact? Blood Sister?”

I smiled at the mention of the word “sister.” “Kristin is cool.”

“Sweet,” she replied, tucking the phone back into her pocket. “I’m Petra, in case you didn’t catch that in Caldwell’s class. I’ll call you tonight. Stay dry out there!” she said with a wink before she disappeared into the corridor.

Turning back to the mirror, I realized I was grinning like an idiot. I tempered my reaction as another girl walked into the restroom. She looked me up and down and let out a derisive chuckle as she sneered at the black T-shirt I was swimming in. I didn’t care. This shirt was given to me by someone who didn’t take herself seriously. Someone who extended her kindness to a complete stranger, turning that stranger into a friend.

I let out a tremendous sigh of relief.

I had a friend.