“Are these supposed to be something I could wear?”

I tried to pull my jeans up again. How could they not fit when I had worn them just last night? “Jo!” I called out, my voice breaking. If I couldn’t get this pair of jeans up over my hips, would none of my clothes fit anymore? “Jo!” I called again.

“I’m on the way,” she called back.

Damn this house for being so big, I couldn’t tell where she was.

“I’m upstairs in my room,” she supplied, though I hadn’t asked out loud. Had I?

I was in the downstairs den/bedroom that Megan and I had used last night, staring horrified in the mirror at the girl who couldn’t pull her jeans up over her fat ass.

I’d taken off the dress, but I still had only the bra on above my waist. The image seemed to dislocate something in my brain. I was one cruel word away from bursting into tears, so why did I think I wanted Joanna to come rescue me?

“Keep it together, Pete,” I told myself. “You’ve got six more weeks of League football to play, then the State Tournament!” The girl in the mirror seemed to consider this doubtful.

I heard Joanna coming down the stairs but refrained from going to meet her.

“Does anything fit, Petey-Gayle?” she asked before opening the door and stopping when she saw me. “Guess not!” She had a laundry basket under one arm and set it on the bed. “Hmm… well, the bra fits.”

“Wuttamigunnado?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

“First of all, give up on those jeans and get out of them. Your bubble-butt is not gonna fit.” She waved a hand toward the laundry basket. “I’ve got some stuff that might work.”

I glared at her. “This is your fault,” I complained. “Making me eat all that ice cream last night.” I wasn’t serious about that, but I needed to blame someone.

She laughed. “Honey, you’re probably bloated.” She poked me in the side, just under my bra.

“Bloated? Oh, fuck!” I squeaked. “Is this going to happen every month?”

“More or less,” she agreed. “When it doesn’t happen….”

“Don’t,” I warned her. “Don’t even say it.”

She cackled mildly, laying items of clothing across the bed.

I shook off the cringey possibility that Jo had implied, and frowned at what she had laid out. “Are these supposed to be something I could wear?” I scoffed.

“I think some of them might fit. And even if you hadn’t vetoed going shopping, you’d need to wear something to do that.”

I pointed at a pair of pants that were obviously Joanna’s. “No way am I wearing lilac jeans!”

“Three weeks ago, I’m sure you would have called them either gray or purple,“ she laughed. “At least you can try them on… and be glad I didn’t offer you my fuchsia pair.”

I knew what fuchsia was, and that appalled me.

Then Joanna piled it on. “Even though,” she commented, “you’d look dahling in the color.”

“I liked you better when we hated each other,” I retorted.

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