NATIONAL BESTSELLER • Delia Bridges is striving to become the compassionate doctor she's been unable to find in her journey to diagnose her excruciating period pain--but when a single rule-breaking incident jeopardizes her future, she must find a way to reclaim her dreams in this funny, period-positive novel. A YALSA BEST FICTION FOR YOUNG ADULTS BOOK OF THE YEAR High school senior Delia Bridges has the most amazing mom and sister, a killer GPA--and periods that are so painful they make her scream, pass out, and throw up. Though she doesn't know it yet, Delia has endometriosis, an affliction plaguing millions of people that is notoriously difficult to diagnose. Pain makes everything harder, but Delia is just one semester away from graduating from Stockwood Prep and pursuing her dream of becoming the kind of doctor she's never had: one who takes her symptoms seriously. But when she breaks a rule for the first time ever and is caught using marijuana at school to manage her pain, Delia is expelled. Her expulsion jeopardizes her college acceptance, her planned mentorship, and everything she had carefully planned for years. Without her academic success and no closer to a diagnosis, is Delia anything more than her period? ★ "With laugh-out-loud catastrophes that are told with empathy, Toney’s debut is a fast-paced romp full of heart, presenting not just an engaging story but a helpful road map for teens seeking to practice self-advocacy ." —Booklist, starred review " An honest, empowering, and relatable story about self-advocacy and perseverance in the face of discrimination." —Kirkus Reviews " Toney comingles humor with the horrors of Delia’s “violent and shocking” periods with aplomb, writing cringe-worthy laugh-out-loud scenes without ever taking away Delia’s power on her path to getting the help she needs." —The Bulletin "Honest, empowering, and deeply relatable ." —School Library Journal Kelsey B. Toney writes humorous, heartfelt stories about the hope that exists after our most laughably bad decisions. In past lives, Kelsey has been a teacher, recording artist, and actress—always in pursuit of connection through art and empathy. Learn more at kelseybtoney.com, on her podcast, or in her newsletter. Chapter One A Well-Behaved Uterus Rarely Makes History I’ve become surprisingly chill about waking up in a pool of my own blood. Yes, whatever, I know menstrual fluid isn’t technically blood, but come on. It’s close enough. Plus, if anyone else could see me, they’d definitely assume I’d been mauled by a velociraptor. In the vagina. “Not today. Not again. Please, not again.” I reached to turn on the light beside my bed and my belly clenched against the pain. Not that I had any doubts, but I aggressively flipped the covers back. It was all-out carnage. I winced. “No, no, no.” My pulse banged against the inside of my throat, in my palms, my forehead. The clammy feeling on my cheeks spread across and under my nose. To be clear, I was perfectly chill about the blood. It was the period that made me panic. Lots of people dislike their period or think it’s painful or annoying. I don’t dislike my period. I loathe it. Like, I seethe with all-consuming fury when I think about it. I’m saying my period is the single literal worst part of my life, and if I could carve out my own guts with a melon baller and survive, I’d be in the car with my very last dollar on my way to Target right now. I grabbed my phone—it was 3:24 a.m. on that fine Tuesday. I opened my period-tracker app to confirm . . . I wasn’t supposed to start until Thursday. I let my face fall into my hands and pressed my fingers against my closed eyelids, but tears leaked out anyway. I was supposed to have two more days—just a little more time. Maybe it was just really bad spotting. Maybe it wasn’t the full-on period yet. But based on the fact that it looked like I’d been in an accident at the ketchup factory, I guessed it was. Across from my bed, on the wall, my pinboard collected shadows along every clipped edge of every saved picture and printer-paper fortune: photos of women in scrubs and surgical caps, an ad for a line of stethoscopes “for women” (in soft pastels that I publicly hated but secretly loved), the promotional photo of the grounds of Gleeson University, and several handwritten mantras inspiring me to become the best gynecologist in the world. I had to be the best, because I had to find an answer. I had to figure out what was wrong with me. I’d been chasing an actual diagnosis for years, but unfortunately for me, the medical community was all too willing to say my condition was just a girl being dramatic. I rolled out of bed—instantly too woozy to stand. I moaned through pursed lips. “This is not good,” I whined to myself. Nausea swirled in my stomach just as I raised my hand to twist the bathroom doorknob. I barely made it to the toilet before everything I’d ever eaten in my