But as we neared the stage, I recognized Connor, and it all cleared right up. Dr. Caskey must have given his son an earlier time than the rest of us. Just nepotism. Nothing complicated.
I clomped up the reverberant steps at the side of the stage, Erik and Marcus trotting up afterward. We flocked toward the table at the edge of the stage, where a pair of Minuets—Connor and his lanky ginger henchman—were talking to Dr. Caskey. Dr. Caskey had a well-groomed thatch of salt-and-pepper hair topping a face that looked uncannily like Connor’s, right down to the self-satisfied look that seemed built into the architecture of his expression. The two Caskeys loomed over the redheaded Minuet like twin skyscrapers.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Caskey said, scanning us. “Welcome. Let’s get your time slot squared away.” He had a confident, genial tone of voice that didn’t match the hardness of his blue eyes.
“Connor, Oscar,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. As we approached, they cleared away from the table to reveal a poster with six slots. The last—of course—was taken: NEW YORK MINUETS.
Marcus fidgeted, looking between Erik and me. “What do we do?” he murmured.
“Trav said second-to-last,” I muttered back.
Erik picked up the pen and reached for number five, but Dr. Caskey said, “Wait.”
Erik looked up at Dr. Caskey, who had a foot and a half of height on him.
Dr. Caskey showed his teeth. A manufactured-looking smile. “The program needs genre separation, so we need some distance between the men’s groups. Fourth or earlier, please.”
Erik let out a slow breath. “Cool.” He and Marcus looked at each other, then, in unison, they faced me.
“Why are you looking at me?”
“Because you’re a junior?” Erik said.
I shook my head. “Okay. Maybe first? What if we did first? It’s better than getting lost in the middle, probably.”
“Totally, yeah,” Marcus said. “That makes sense. Do that.”
I picked up the pen and scribbled SHARPSHOOTERS into the first slot.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Dr. Caskey said. “Have a good break, fellas.”
We headed for the backstage door, passing between the stripes of deep blue curtain that hung stage left. “That was bullshit,” Erik muttered, looking mutinous. “Trav’s going to be so mad.”
“Yeah,” Marcus agreed. “Yeah. But he can’t really do anything, I guess. Dr. Caskey is the dean.”
“This better not throw our chances,” Erik grumbled.
I opened my mouth to reassure him, but something interrupted: a sensation of sudden warmth blooming between my legs.
I froze. My period wasn’t supposed to come for another week. These sweatpants, light gray, weren’t going to hide stains, and I couldn’t remember if I had a tampon in my bag. I’d never wished for period cramps, but good Lord, a little heads-up would have been nice.
“You good, man?” Erik said.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I grunted. “You guys go ahead. I’m going to use the bathroom.”
“See you later!” Marcus chirped, and they headed for the stage door. I moved for the greenroom, trying not to waddle too much. What was the best way to walk when you were trying not to bleed everywhere? Unclear. Someone should’ve done studies on this.
The Arlington greenroom planners had taken the name too literally, with rich emerald-green carpeting and walls painted a light mint. The L-shaped room had sofas along every available wall, the boys’ restroom to my right. I darted around the bend, hunting for the girls’.
There it was, tucked into the corner of the L. Please, I prayed, pushing inside. In Palmer, the bathrooms under the stage were always stocked with pads and tampons, lined up along the mirror like a feminine hygiene buffet. I didn’t know why they were there, but I’d raided those supplies more times than I could count.
I flicked on the lights. This bathroom wasn’t equipped. It had been a slender hope anyway.
I swung into a stall and sat for a while, contemplating the terrible timing. Now I had to deal with my period on the retreat. How was I going to get rid of a shitload of bloodstained objects without the Sharps noticing?
Only one option, really: Bring a bunch of plastic bags and hide it all in my suitcase. Smuggle my used tampons back to school after the retreat like contraband.
Sighing, I double-checked the front pocket of my backpack. Empty. Time to make one of those makeshift pads out of toilet paper, position it awkwardly in my underwear, and pray it held up until I got home, then.
Makeshift pad made and applied, I flushed, washed my hands, and left the bathroom. My phone buzzed as I crossed the greenroom threshold. I paused to check the group text.
Trav (3:36 p.m.): You didn’t even try to request he change the order? You didn’t ask him why the Minuets knew to get there so early?
He might have backed down if he thought you were going to bring this to other teachers.
Trav (3:36 p.m.): I asked you to do one thing. You might have taken a bit of initiative.
Shit. Usually, this would be the point at which Isaac would dive in to calm him down. None of the rest of us knew how to handle this. The others were probably resenting Isaac right now for disappearing.
I found myself wanting to be angry at him, too—as if by not telling us, he deserved the resentment. Of course not, though. He didn’t owe us the down-low on his dad’s medical procedures.
I tapped Isaac’s contact on my phone screen and opened a new text. Seeing our text history was a weird flood of memory—the rapport we’d had before the Golden Bear disaster, before the dance.
I typed a message. The words didn’t come smoothly.
Hey, Isaac. Your roommate told Nihal and me last night what the deal is. We haven’t told the guys. You don’t have to reply to this or anything, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here. Hope your dad’s feeling okay and he gets better soon.
I reread it a few times. Would this help at all? Was it too emotional? Too girly?
I gave my head a hard shake, disgusted. How selfish was I, worrying about whether my phrasing in a text was too feminine, when on the other end, Isaac was sitting in some hospital by his post-op father? I knew what it felt like to sit in that seat: lonely.
Besides, Marcus was plenty compassionate. Nihal was plenty kind. Kindness had no gender, had no race or age or category. It didn’t matter if this made me sound like myself—I’d built a thick enough wall for it to withstand a few blows, and Isaac could use some sympathy. I couldn’t offer much, but I could be genuine for once in my damned life.
I tapped Send, put my phone down, and walked out of the greenroom.