Durable Goods by Elizabeth Berg

mean?”
    “Does it hurt? You know, in your stomach?”
    I put my hand on myself. “No.”
    “Oh.” Her voice is sorry for me and pleased mixed together.
    “Why should I hurt?”
    “Well, it’s…. You know, generally, women have some pain. Not all women, of course. It’s your more feminine types that suffer most. I take Midol.”
    I send my mind down to my stomach to check around. Nothing. But I say, “Well, I mean, I thought you meant like hammer-on-the-head pain. I have
pain!
But it’s … not real bad.”
    Cherylanne moves her face close to mine. “Like somebody pushing down on you a little?”
    “Yes, like that.”
    She straightens. “Well, that’s it.”
    I have passed. Cherylanne tells me that a woman must treat herself in special ways on special days. I can’t go swimming or horseback riding, I know that, right? I should nap when possible, and drink weak tea. And always check to be sure you don’t need a girlfriend to walk close behind you when you come out of the classroom. “There was this girl once,” Cherylanne tells me in her deliciousconfiding tone, “and she was wearing a
white skirt.”
I lie on her bed, hold one of her stuffed animals close to me, listening, until we have to leave for school.
    H e has a date. That night when he comes home he calls Diane up from the laundry room, me down from my bedroom. “I’ll be going out with a lady this evening,” he says, “and I’m bringing her here first. I want you to behave.”
    I don’t know what to say. He might as well not be speaking English. I might as well be saying, “Excuse me, excuse me, I don’t understand” real slow, my face working to convey what my words can’t.
    Diane leans up against the wall. It is sadness pushing her, I know. “Who is this you’re going out with?” she asks.
    “Pardon me?” he says. The summer storm. The sudden sound of the thunder, the rolling of the black clouds.
    She straightens. “I just wanted to know her name. Please.”
    “Nancy Simon.”
    Diane nods. “Where did you meet her?”
    “When I am ready to tell you details about Miss Simon, you’ll know.”
    Diane nods again. I have some questions, too. I have a lot of questions, too. But never mind.
    S he is black-haired, Nancy, her hair pushed back hard and high and see-through. Beehive. She looks younger than my mother did. She wears deep-blue eye shadow and two silver bracelets and a black dress and heels. She sits at the kitchen table, smoking, smiling at me. There is a trench coat lying across her lap, tan, soiled at the cuffs. “So you’re twelve, huh?” she asks. There is a tiny dot of spit on the corner of her mouth. I rub my own mouth to tell her, but she doesn’t understand.
    “Yes. Almost thirteen.”
    She raises her too-black eyebrows, jets out astream of smoke toward the ceiling. Cherylanne and I used to play dirty lady, just like that. Cherylanne’s name was Mitzi, mine Titzi. We swung our crossed legs, twitched our bottoms on our pretend bar stools, drank ginger ale from Belle’s good glasses, smoked pencils. We smoked just like Nancy Simon does.
    “Almost thirteen,” Nancy says. “Well. Big girl!”
    There is a place just before they make fun of you. That is where Nancy is. I look down, think of a reason to leave.
    “Well,” I say, finally, “I have to do some homework. Very nice to meet you, thank you for coming.”
    She stands up, totters a bit on her high heels, reaches out to touch my shoulder. “Nice to meet you, too, honey.” I smell her perfume, unwelcome in my mother’s kitchen. Unwelcome in my mother’s house.
    “I hope to see you again,” she says. It is flirty, like I am the guy. Of course it is aimed for my father, who stands, arms crossed, at the other side of the kitchen. He doesn’t have anything army on.
    “Okay,” I say. “Well, have a nice time.”
    She looks at my father. Oh. I see. They already have.
    I go upstairs and knock on Diane’s door, open it. “Are they gone?” she asks. I