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“During the summer of my thirteenth year, I did something terrible.”
“Totally the last one,” Miranda says to nods of agreement from the others. “I mean, if you truly had done something terrible, you’re not going to admit it during a game.”
I smile, pretending that they’re right. What none of them understand is that the point of the game isn’t to fool others with a lie.
The goal is to trick them by telling the truth.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
My second night at Camp Nightingale was as sleepless as the first. Possibly worse. No electricity in the cabin meant no air-conditioning, no fan, nothing to act as a shield against the late June heat. I awoke before dawn, sweaty and uncomfortable, a patch of warm moisture between my legs. When I dipped an index finger into my underwear to investigate, it came back stained with blood.
I was seized with panic, unsure what to do. I knew about menstruation, of course. The girls in my class had been given “the talk” the year before, much to the relief of my mother, who was spared such awkwardness. We were told why it would happen. We were told how it would happen. But my gym teacher—kindly, clueless Miss Baxter—had neglected to tell us what to dowhenit happened.
Ignorant and fearful, I crawled out of bed and awkwardly climbed the ladder to the bunk above mine, afraid to part my legs too much. Rather than ascend one foot at a time, I gripped the ladder’s sides and lifted both feet up each rung in quick, bunk-shaking hops. By the time I reached the top, Vivian was already half-awake. Her eyes fluttered beneath a swath of blond hair that covered her face like a veil.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m bleeding,” I whispered.
“What?”
“I’mbleeding,” I said again, stressing the second word as much as I could.
“Then go get a Band-Aid.”
“It’s between my legs.”
Vivian’s eyes opened fully as she swiped the hair from her face. “You mean—”
I nodded.
“Is this your first time?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.” She sighed, partly out of annoyance and partly out of pity. “Come on. There are tampons in the latrine.”
I followed Vivian outside, waddling like a duck down the mulch-covered path. At one point, she glanced back at me and said, “Quit walking like that. You look like an idiot.”
Inside the latrine, Vivian hit the light switch by the door and led me to the nearest stall. Along the way, she grabbed a tampon from the dispenser attached to the wall. I sequestered myself inside the stall, Vivian whispering instructions from the other side of the door.
“I think I did it right,” I whispered back. “I’m not sure.”
“You’d know if you did it wrong.”
I remained in the stall, humiliated, humbled, and not sure how to feel. Womanhood had officially arrived. The thought filled me with sadness. And fear. I began to cry all the tears I had managed to hold back the night before. I couldn’t help it.
Vivian, of course, heard me and said, “Are you crying?”
“No.”
“You totally are. I’m coming in.”
Before I could protest, she was in the stall, closing the door behind her and nudging me aside with her hips so she could join me on the toilet seat.
“Come on,” she said. “It’s not that bad.”
“How would you know? You’re only, like, three years older than me.”