 So this is an excerpt from a longer story called Ebb and Flow. Mom, do you want to know what's around my neck? Absolutely. Poison and the antidote. Mama pants in Ebb and Flow. I know what I want for my birthday. A blow dart set. Sunrise sunset. The sun moves ten times around the seasons. Skated over ten clear frozen streams. Who do you have a crush on? I don't have a crush. Yes, you do. What about Mason? Truth. Or dare. Alexa's wearing a bra. A little too early the next morning. Mom, we're going out back. Sorry, neighbors. Dragon Wars. Wow, Nene's getting tall. She's almost as tall as you. I'm almost as tall as you. Do you realize she's almost as tall as you? Yeah, I noticed. Mom, my nipples hurt. Can it be? May I take a look at them? Sure enough. I got her some books. On average, full breast development takes three to five years. She came to me with questions. Mom, why do women wear bras? Well, there's lots of different kinds of bras. Some are for support. Because rouncing breasts can be uncomfortable. Like sports bras? Yes. Sometimes they're for display like platters. Ha ha. Not everyone needs or wants to wear bras. Like you. I'm not going to wear a bra. We'll see. According to the New Moon's Arms by Nala Hopkinson, the main character Calamity manifests bits of her childhood with each hot flash or power surge. A natural pin, a favorite toy, a climbing tree. She climbs the tree awkwardly, painfully. I lived in trees when I was Day-Nay's age. My body was strong legs, healing scrapes, scratched mosquito bites, capable hands, sex neutral. Not yet. Mom got hers at 12. I kept a daily watch. Mom, old was grandma when she got her first period. I was 11. Grandma was nine. 11, nine. Oddly opposite the national trend of younger onset. Wait, what? Memory can be fickle. The last handful of years, my familiar rhythm of menstrual cycle has been getting weird. I began checking in with some friends of similar age. So, how's your period these days? Weird. Weird. Weird. Childish traits that had begun to annoy me I now clung to endearingly. Food not wiped from face, reeking of amber oil, holes in the knees at three months, in the butt at six months. She has to bend to do this now. Mush. Smooch. Ew. Is this a kissing movie? Time to brush your teeth and wash face. Why? Huh? Why does she have to wash her face? Or because it's healthier for the skin? I never wash my face at night and it's fine. But you've got to take care of your face. Had I been duped? I propose science. For the next couple of weeks, I set aside my favorite facial wash. This feels so weird. Some days I just had to rinse my face with water. I still believe it's good to rinse off accumulated city pollution and pollen. And you know what? Nothing happened. My face, my skin remains unchanged. Kid pants in rites of passage. One, now that you're getting older, you need a good face care system. Two, happy birthday, a bra. What do I need that for? Write a rotten gift. Thanks. Three, mom, I got my first period. That's wonderful. I told my boyfriend, we'll all go out to dinner to celebrate. Why'd you tell him? I don't want to go to dinner. Back before the tech rush changed the population of San Francisco and before I ever thought I wanted a child, I thought that city of queridos and arty adventurers would be a great place to raise a girl child. But now, did you bring me anything to eat?