My Nude Tights
My mom yanked my hair into the tightest ponytail she could muster as I sat on a plastic chair in
the high school gym.
“Close your eyes,” she commanded. I squeezed them tightly as she sprayed, but the synthetic
smell still worked its way through my nostrils and onto my tastebuds.
I coughed a little. I couldn’t help it. “It’s your own fault for not closing your mouth.” My mom
rolled her eyes at the sound.
She came to the front of the chair and stared deeply into my face. The foundation cream
threatened to melt due to the overhead lighting, but I wasn’t nervous, because I knew the primer
would hold it. My lashes were on, my eyeshadow applied, and my lips were bright red. Any
imperfection, she would catch. I completely trusted her.
Her eyes worked their way over my face. I held my breath in anticipation. After a beat, she
smiled. “My star. You’re beautiful.” I exhaled.
All I needed to do was go to the bathroom. If I didn’t go to the bathroom, I would nervous-pee on
stage. Four years ago, when I was much younger, I tried to hold in my nervous pee before
reciting my assigned poem. Instead of blowing the class away with my detailed memory, I peed
my pants in front of my entire class. And everyone laughed.
Never again. As I walked to the bathroom, I looked around the gym to see girls of all ages and
sizes wearing a variety of neon costumes and preparing for their respective dances. There were
large groups marking their dance as a final practice, duos stretching each other, and trios
stepping on each other’s toes. Jazz shoes slapped against linoleum and the makeup luggage
wheels rolled. Music clashed. Other mother daughter duos were walking through a similar
makeup routine that my mom and I just did, but there was a key difference: I was better.
The lockers in the high school’s hallway were much bigger than the lockers in the middle school.
Mine was only half the wall, and these were the entire wall. I loved my locker. I decorated it with
blue zebra print wallpaper, a purple shaggy rug, a black magnetic chandelier, an owl shaped
whiteboard, and a mirror. I doubted any of these lockers came close to mine. Mine was perfect.
I weaved my way through the hectic girl’s bathroom. There were elementary school kids crying
and older girls taking selfies in the mirror. I caught my eye as I walked past, and saw that I
looked amazing. The ruffles on my black leotard stretched across my body from my shoulder to
my hip. I felt beautiful.
Once I was inside the stall, I peeled my leotard off my body and pulled my tights down. There
was a red indent around my stomach from my tights. I let my belly relax for these few minutes of
freedom.
I peed and wiped and didn’t think anything was unusual until I stared down at the piece of toilet
paper in my hand. My stomach plummeted. I immediately became nauseous. Dread coursed its
way through my veins.
Blood.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
I got my period.
Thankfully my leotard was black, but there was a tiny spot of brown that I could see on my nude
tights. The judges would notice that. I was finished. Flashes of the assembly I had with my mom
last year went through my mind. The diaper thing. The pad. I couldn’t do that. I needed a
tampon. I didn't have one. I couldn’t put my tights back on. They were dirty. I was dirty.
None of my friends had gotten their period yet. I was the first one. I was always one step ahead
of everyone when I so desperately just wanted to be in the pack. I wear a bra. I’m 5’5”. I have
acne. And now, I have my period. I can’t stop progressing.
My eyes started to water, but with every fibre of my being I willed them to dry. The last thing I
was going to do was mess up my makeup.
I was pondering my inevitable demise, when a voice rang out from the other end of the
bathroom. “Does anyone have a tampon?” The voice sounded older.
“Yeah no prob,” another voice called back.
“Wait, I need one too,” a scared voice to the right of me called out.
“Sure,” a different girl responded.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I willed my voice to steady. “I need a tampon,” I squeaked
out.
I held my breath and stared at my shoes. A hand appeared, with a small, cylindrical package.
