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pressed my legs together, only that didn’t seem like such a big deal. As far as I could tell, it was just a nice sensation, like when Barry had shaved me. Not some kind of actual event.
    â€œLook!” Zack said at one point, and he came over to show me a picture of a woman with light brown skin and dark brown nipples. There was a headline above the picture that said ARABIAN QUEEN .
    â€œSo?” I said.
    â€œShe’s a towelhead, just like you.”
    â€œStop saying that,” I said. “It’s not nice.”
    He took the magazine back. “Maybe you could be in Playboy someday. You have big boobs.”
    I shook my head, remembering the names of all those men photographers.
    â€œMy dad even thinks you’re pretty,” he said, heading back to his spot on the bed.
    â€œHe does?”
    Zack nodded. “He says you’re going to have a lot of boyfriends, and your dad’s going to lock you up.”
    â€œHe is not,” I said, feeling alarmed.
    â€œWait and see,” Zack warned.
    That afternoon, when Mr. Vuoso came home, I felt more nervous than usual. “Hi, Jasira,” he said, and I said, “Fine, thank you.” Zack thought this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard and wouldn’t stop laughing. Even Mr. Vuoso laughed, but it wasn’t mean. He just said, “Well, you’re getting a little ahead of me there, but good. I’m glad you’re fine.” Then he went in the kitchen.
    â€œYou can go now,” Zack said.
    â€œI know when I can go,” I told him.
    At home, I checked my underwear. There were a few blood spots, so I put a pad on for safety. I didn’t want to take the tampon out yet. Not until Daddy came home and I could walk around in front of him while I was wearing it.
    â€œStop walking everywhere,” he told me later that night.
    â€œSorry,” I said, and I took a seat in the breakfast nook.
    â€œDon’t you have homework?” he asked. He was standing at the kitchen counter, fixing our dinner. Tonight it was weird Middle Eastern food.
    â€œI already did it,” I said.
    â€œWell,” he said, “I’m listening to the radio right now.”
    â€œI’ll be quiet.”
    After a moment, he said, “How’s your period?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œDid your cramps go away?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œYour mother used to have cramps,” he said. “It was like she was dying or something.”
    â€œMine weren’t that bad,” I said.
    â€œI always thought she was lying about it,” he said. “To get attention.”
    I nodded. I had actually seen her like this and thought the same thing.
    â€œI would ignore her, and she would get mad at me and say I was heartless. I’m not heartless. I just know a liar when I see one.”
    I thought about my tampon then, and how he didn’t really know a liar at all.
    â€œCome and help me chop this salary,” he said, which was what he called both the vegetable and his paycheck, and I said okay.
    After dinner, I went and took the tampon out. It was pretty soaked, and a lot of other blood fell into the toilet with it. I had to use extra toilet paper, and when I flushed, the water wouldn’t go down. I didn’t know what to do, so I yelled, “Daddy! Help!” He ran in, saw what was happening, then ran out again. By the time he came back with the plunger, pink water was overflowing onto the beige carpet.
    â€œJesus Christ,” he said, starting to plunge. This sent more water and bits of toilet paper onto the rug. Soon, though, the bowl began to drain. At the end, it made a little gurgle, then shot out a teeny bit of clear water. “Go get me a plastic bag,” Daddy said, and I did, and he put the dirty plunger inside it. Then he pointed to the floor and said, “What’s that?”
    I looked down and saw my tampon. It wasn’t as bloody as it had been when I’d