By Ebony L. Morman
November 10, 1995
No. No. No. This cannot be happening. Not to me, not right now.
I sit up and hug the driver’s seat from behind. “How much longer?” Please don’t be long. Please say not that much longer.
“Not much longer, baby girl.”
Okay. Not much longer. Not much longer. Maybe if I say it enough, that’ll speed up time or get Uncle Lance to close the distance quicker. Not much longer? Five? Ten minutes? What am I even talking about? It all feels like forever.
A distraction. That’s what I need.
Focus on what you see, Loren.
All the food my Auntie Nic packed. Fruit snacks. Vitner’s chips (Tangy Triple Cheese, Hot Crunchy Cheese Kurls, and plain), Suzy Q’s for Lance, strawberry penny cookies for all of us, and that frozen fried chicken she got up super early to put in the oven and wrap in foil when it came out. And then… the ham and cheese sandwiches, the ones stacked with lettuce, tomato, cheese, and sprinkled with salt and pepper. Then tucked in foil too. So. Much. Food.
I see both of my cousins knocked out too. Aren’s head’s hanging in the air. And he’s grinding his teeth. Ugh. Brayan’s head is smashed into his lucky pillow; slobber dots his fat cheeks. Auntie Nic’s head’s deep inside of a new book that she’s halfway done with it. And Uncle Lance, his head’s bouncing up and down to some old song. Sounds like Frankie Beverly and Maze.
My head hurts. No, scratch that. It’s banging. Went from hurting to pounding just like that. I rub at my temples the same way my grandmother, who we all call Mama, does after a long day or when one of us works her nerves. I shift in my seat. Slow. Careful. Not too much, not too quick. God, please don’t let me make a mess in here.
“About a mile left,” Lance says, filling the silence between songs. “Two, tops.” He eyes me through the rearview mirror, his face all scrunched up. Mouths, You okay?
My head nods on its own, out of habit. But my eyes drop on purpose. Truth is, I’m not okay. Not even close. But I can’t tell him that. And I for sure can’t tell Nic. Not in front of a car full of boys.
Why me? Why now? And right in the middle of a road trip, too. I need another distraction. Anything. Just gotta last one mile. Two, tops.
What was it Mama, and everybody else, said about this kinda thing? About
women? About girls?
Think, Loren. Think.
It’s a special moment, really. Don’t feel like you’re alone. We all go through It.
Think of It as being welcomed to a club. Girls only.
Don’t panic. It sneaks up, but it’s natural.
When It happens, things change. For one, it means you can get pregnant. You get pregnant and everything changes.
That last one’s from Cheyenne. The woman who birthed me. Go figure.
I shake my head, tryna unscramble their voices. None of it tells me what I need right this second. What I need to do now, when my body is just up and changing for the first time, when I’m stuck in a car on an eight-hour road trip. We ain’t been near Chicago in a minute. Just been nothing but long stretches of expressway for too long. The green sign off to the side proves it, lets me know we’re closer to Memphis than to home.
Nic snaps her book shut, the sound pulling me out of my mess of thoughts. My head’s spinning so bad I didn’t even notice Lance already parked, or my cousins rushing out the car, halfway inside Boomland.
Some things never change. Every trip to Memphis, we act like Boomland’s the destination when it’s only our checkpoint. Proof we made it outta Chicago and are that much closer to Lance’s hometown.
Only this time is different.
I’m different and this thing that’s throwing my body into a fit is sucking all the fun outta the one place that’s usually synonymous with excitement.
Inside, I go straight for the washroom. But since Boomland is a corner store on steroids, it takes forever to get to the back. When I make it, there’s a line waiting for me.
No. No. No. My face twists, legs too. And every second it gets harder to keep it all together. My face, my body, my thoughts.
“Why me?” slips out under my breath.
The round woman in front of me whips her head around, eyes narrowing like she’s hunting for the noise. Then she lands on me. Stares me right in the face. Her eyes sweep over me and her big head tilts as she takes in my stance. It only takes a few seconds for her eyes to get all big.
“Excuse me,” the woman says, leaning toward the women in front of us. “My… daughter… really needs to get in that stall. Like, right now.”
She rubs my shoulder, all dramatic. “It’s practically life or death. Okay, maybe not death. Humiliation? Utter embarrassment? Pick one.”
Huh? I mess with the tiny charm hanging from my necklace, tryna figure out what that was all about. Is she… saving me? Sure sounds like it. But why?
Maybe the rumors are true. Maybe there is some secret girls-only club, one where everybody just… knows. Knows the stuff nobody bothers to tell you.
I lay my hand on top of hers, tryna play along. “Please,” I whisper, biting my bottom lip.
“Fine with me,” one of the women says, waving me through. There’s a smirk on her face, too. One of those I-know-exactly-what’s-going-on smirks.
The other one lifts her chin, agreeing, though one of her over-plucked brows shoots up higher than the other. Then she digs in her bag, pulls something out, and presses it into my hand.
“Here,” she says. “Go ‘head.”
Inside the washroom, I breathe out a quick thank-you prayer for the stranger who decided to feel sorry for me. Then I fight with the raggedy lock, jiggling it till I realize it’s hanging on for dear life.
Great. Just great. Like I needed one more thing to worry about.
“Get out of your head, Loren,” I whisper. “Focus.”
I look down and my whole body goes still.
Blood.
Not just a little either.
I grab some tissue, fold it real thick. Then fumble with the pad she gave me, hands moving all quick.
Then the avalanche comes, the stories from women, girls my age, some even younger. Everybody’s voices tumbling down on me at once. Advice, warnings, do this, don’t do that.
Breathe. Just breathe. That’s it. Pull it together.
And then Cheyenne’s voice slides in, the loudest of them all: When it happens, things change. For one, it means you can get pregnant.
Pregnant? Seriously? I’m twelve. Okay, fine, twelve and a half. Still. Even with this new… new thing, that’s gotta be impossible. Right? No. No, it’s not impossible. Cheyenne was only fourteen when she had me. Still a kid, and somehow already had somebody calling her ma.
I drop my head into my just-washed hands, shake it side to side. I might get pregnant? Those four words march around in my brain. First dancing, now stomping. Like ballerinas with combat boots.
“You don’t even have a boyfriend,” I say to my reflection in the foggy mirror. “The last thing you should be worried about is having a ba—”
A loud pounding rattles the door, cutting me off. Somebody’s yelling over it, all muffled, making no sense.
When I pull the door open, Aren, my ten-year-old cousin, is standing there mid-pound, fist frozen in the air. He stumbles back, losing his balance. I wave him off quick, mumble that everything’s all good. He finally leaves satisfied, off to see how much Boomland junk his parents’ll let him stuff in the trunk for the ride south and then back to Chicago.
Boomland’s got everything. And I mean everything. Fancy Foods. Flowers. Figurines. Clothes too. But everybody knows what it’s really about: fireworks. Roman candles, sparklers, bottle rockets. You name it, stacked floor to ceiling. Biggest collection in the whole country, they say. We never leave without grabbing some, even if it’s nowhere near the Fourth. It’s tradition. Sometimes we even get lucky and stop on the way back, too. If, and that’s a big giant if, Lance and Nic are in the right mood.
I wander down each aisle, running my fingers across random stuff that don’t match. Homemade apple butter in a glass jar, a Route 66 salt-and-pepper holder shaped like a gas pump, a black-and-white mug with Mama Bear carved on the front. Ain’t gone find none of this at one of the corner stores back home. What you will find, though, is tight aisles, leaking freezers, and bulletproof glass.
Personal items. Where you at? This place is s’posed to have it all, right?
“One aisle over.” It’s the woman from before.
I nod quick, toss her a thanks, hoping she’ll take the hint. She doesn’t. Nope. Just takes my thanks as an open invitation to tag along.
“These,” she says, handing me a gigantic blue box, “are what you should start out with. My actual daughter uses them. She’s about your age. They work for her, they’ll work for you.”
A forced smile stretches across my face.
The box feels heavy and light at the same time. I toy with it, turning it around, pretending I can make sense of the tiny words on the back.
She busies herself, picking up and putting down everything in reach like she’s considering buying up the whole shelf.
I stare at the front of the box. It’s the same one that’s in the cabinet underneath our washroom sink, the kind my youngest aunt, Jada, started with, the kind she still uses.
Okay. Maybe this woman does know a thing or two.
“You’re not alone,” she says, turning to walk away. “We all go through it.”
Yeah. That’s what I keep hearing.
She slings her thin purse strap across her chest, throws me a smile. “Welcome to the club!”
Some club. Clubs are supposed to be fun. Something you wanna join. This? This feels like the opposite of all of that.
“Who is that?” Nic appears behind me, arms full of stuff we don’t need.
“Nobody,” I mumble, tucking the blue box tight under my arm. “Ready?”
“Loren. Aleeyah. Sutton.” She says my whole name like she’s calling out three different people. Then, boom. All the stuff she was holding lands right on the glossy tile.
I try to tell her to be quiet, but ain’t no point. She wraps her arms around me and all of a sudden my feet are dangling off the ground. I don’t even know how the box doesn’t go flying with the rest of Nic’s stuff.
She rocks me side to side, like I’m still little. But I’m heavier now, and she knows it. She exhales hard, her eyes all lit up, like they might jump outta her face any second.
Is she proud? Nah. Can’t be. Because this ain’t nothing to be proud of. Not like I had to do something to make it happen.
Nic’s mouth don’t stop moving on the way to the register. In between her “instructions” and what she says is wisdom, she piles on more stuff I’ll apparently need.
Aspirin for cramps. Towels I gotta wet, then microwave. Also for cramps. And underwear. Not the cute kind either. Ones just for that time of the month. All of it temporary, she says, till we get to a “real” store.
This is so Nic. Stay doing the most. Always making sure not one detail is missed. Mama wouldn’t be like this. She’d just say it straight up like it is, probably too loud too. Cheyenne would probably just wave it off, act like it’s just part of growing up, no big deal needed. And here’s Nic, arms full, turning my private business into a shopping spree.
That’s the thing with all of them. All got different definitions of showing up. Mama always keeping it real, slipping in something slick. Cheyenne with her vanishing act. Nic with her overdrive. And me, caught in the middle, tryna figure out which version of “help” is what I need.
One thing I know is, this ain’t cool. Not fun. And definitely not something I wanna be counting down to every single month for forever.
At the counter, I get out a faded five from my pocket and slap it down, quick. Before the man can pick it up, Nic’s already digging through her big black bag, the one that holds everything. She finds her wad of bills and smooths one out flat.
“No,” she says, swapping mine for hers. “You don’t use your own money on what you need. That’s our job.”
She presses my money back into my palm, tosses the rest of her stuff on the counter. “Yours is yours… for what you want, not what you need.”
It’s one of Nic’s rules. More of a thing, really. One of the things she don’t play about. But this is something I wanna do for me. Since everybody keeps saying how big of a deal it is, I got it.
She puts up a fight, but the line’s getting long, and Lance is over there waving us down. Finally, Nic throws her hands up, lets out this heavy sigh, and lets me pay. By the time I’m sliding my change off the counter, she’s already bouncing toward the door, still rattling off more advice I won’t remember. She’s so busy talking she don’t even notice I’m not right beside her.
“Looks like you’re good to go.”
It’s the woman from before, nodding at the brown paper bag I’m holding like a baby.
I nod back, say Thanks. For real this time.
She holds the door open for me, leans in a little. “Promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?” I say, waving at Lance. He’s at the pump, squinting at us, confused.
I throw him a thumbs-up. Then I lift one finger in the air.
Behind me, fireworks climb high as the ceiling, boxes stacked till they can’t be stacked no more. Cold air brushes against my arms, just like it does in the city this time of year. But I ain’t there. Ain’t in Memphis yet either. Just somewhere in between.
“Don’t dread it,” she says. “It’s nothing to be nervous about because it’s natural. If it didn’t come… now, that’s when you’d really have something to worry about.”
A real smile slips onto my face before I can stop it. I don’t even remember the last time I smiled like this. I’m grateful for this woman. More grateful than I can say out loud. And all of a sudden, I don’t want her to leave me here standing in this doorway with just a bag of supplies and my scrambled thoughts. I don’t know what it is exactly but there’s something about her. Whatever it is, I like it. One thing’s for sure, her daughter’s lucky. And I hope she knows it.
“Hey,” I say, yelling at her back. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“My name?” She glances over her shoulder, waves like it’s no big deal. “Oh, nevermind that!”
And just like that, she’s gone. The door swings shut and I stand there for a second, bag tight under my arm.
Back in the car, it’s like nothing happened. Brayan back snoring into his pillow, Aren crunching on chips, Nic’s opening her book again, and Lance is back humming. Same as always.
Except me.
Out the window, the world blurs. Long fences, patches of frost clinging to fields, trees stripped naked by November winds. I-55 South goes on forever, the highway humming under us. I stare till all I see is me, floating in the glass. Different. Changed.
My body switched up on me today, but maybe it was just showing me what comes next.
I close my eyes, rest my head against the window. My voice is barely a whisper. “I got this.”
Ebony Morman is a Chicago-raised writer now living in Charlotte, NC, and a graduate of Columbia College Chicago. Her fiction has appeared in Lived In., Litmosphere, Pure Slush, and Everyday Fiction. Her work has received Honorable Mention in the 2026 Jacobs/Jones African American Literary Prize.
Artwork by Dan Cassidy