The Miraculous Makeover of Lizard Flanagan by Carol Gorman Page B

are the best,” I said. “I don’t need to have more friends.”
    Zach scratched behind Klondike’s ear. “It’s good to have lots of friends.”
    My stomach was turning sour again. “You never needed more friends before now,” I said. My voice was starting to sound whiney. I cleared my throat and lowered it as much as I could. “I don’t get it.”
    Zach shrugged. “It might be fun.”
    â€œDancing?”
    â€œOr not dancing. Just talking.”
    â€œYou can talk to people at school between classes,” I said.
    Zach didn’t say any more about it. He got up and grabbed a stick on the ground. “Come on, Klondike. Come on, Bob,” he said. “Let’s play fetch.”
    I watched Zach and the dogs run around the yard. I didn’t feel like joining them. What had gotten into my old pal? First, he didn’t seem to mind Lisa and Ginger practically drooling all over him. And now he said he might like to go to that stupid school dance! This was not the Zach I thought I knew.
    I got up to go home. My stomach was killing me.
    I lay on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. I’d been thinking about Zach, but there was something else bothering me. I hadn’t wanted to think about it, but it kept nudging me from a corner of my mind. It was what Ms. Puff had said in gym class.
    If you’re having your period, you don’t have to shower.
    Why was that?
    I knew what menstruation was. We’d had a film about it in fourth grade.
    The film went into a lot of technical stuff about the ovaries, eggs, and uterus and explained why menstruation happens. But it didn’t answer a lot of important questions, like: When would I get my period for the first time? Where would it happen? At school? When I’m sleeping? When I’m playing ball with the guys?
    Guys are so lucky, I thought. They never have to deal with anything like this. It was so unfair.
    I put my hands behind my head and thought about the commercials I’d seen on TV. Somehow I couldn’t see myself walking on the beach with my mother discussing cramping and bloating.
    The last time we’d talked about it, I was sort of embarrassed, and I could tell she was, too. She asked me if I had questions, and when I said I didn’t, she seemed relieved.
    But I did have questions. Lots of them.
    I got up and walked out of my room, down the hallway, and into the bathroom. I closed the door behind me.
    A large closet stands just inside the door. I opened it and looked around. Maybe I’d find whatever Mom uses. Maybe there would be directions on the box.
    I pushed aside some junk—a jar of Vaseline, a collection of hairbrushes, bottles of aspirin and cough syrup. Behind that, at the back of the closet, sat a cup that Sam had won at the Washington Elementary fair. Inside the cup was a razor; next to the cup was a can of shaving foam.
    â€œWhy would Sam—” Then it hit me. Sam’s shaving?
    Sam, with the baby-soft skin, thinks he needs to shave? What a ridiculous thought!
    I kept looking for what I’d come here to find. On the second shelf, I found something that looked promising. It was a blue box with little white flowers on it. Inside were long, thin, paper-wrapped things.
    I unwrapped one of them and stared at it. “What the heck is this?” I said.
    â€œWhat?”
    I jumped. The voice was coming from the hall.
    I crammed everything back into the closet and opened the door. Sam stood there in the hall.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” he said. “Who are you talking to?”
    â€œNo one,” I said. I could feel my face getting hot and prickly.
    â€œYou looking for something?”
    â€œNone of your business!” Then I remembered why he wanted to know. “If you’re worried about your shaving equipment, I left it where I found it. I’m sure you’ll want to shave off that duckling fuzz on your face!”
    â€œYou got