chest
Big chest
Piper looked like a woman already. Lots of people noticed. She shopped only in womenâs clothing stores. I could buy a thing or two in those sizes, but I didnât need to. OK, if that was really why he chose her over me, what was I supposed to do? Stuffing just didnât really work. What would happen in the summer? Would I flap around our community pool with a wad of soggy tissues in my bikini top?
It was so unfair. I was still waiting for my period and all that came with it. But my brain and my heart were just as grown up as anybodyâs, probably more so. Who else was up at midnight trying to figure out the mysteries of the universe, including how to get a boy to like me more than my beautiful, popular (former) best friend?
I wanted to know what happens between two people when they decide to be together, like Mr. Ford and Ms. Russo. Who says âI love youâ first? I can barely make eye contact with Forrest. Could I ever tell him the truthâhow I think of him every day and try to watch him without looking too obvious?
I imagined Forrest and me ten years from now. I would have grown up (and out) and he would be just as hot, but taller. Iâd be someone who travels for my job, and heâd come to meet me somewhere, like on the cliffs of Capri in Italy. My parents took me there once on vacation, and it was filled with honeymooning couples. Just try to find a table for three thereâno chance. The entire trip, I was crammed in with them at tiny, romantic tables. I was only eleven, but I caught the pie-eyed way my parents sometimes looked at each other there. What makes people become couples?
I know, I know. Iâm not alone in all my wondering. The Pink Locker Society gets oodles of questions about crushes, like:
⢠My crush is acting strange. He is usually happy and funny, but today he yelled at me. What am I supposed to do?
⢠SHOULD I TELL MY CRUSH WHAT I FEEL ABOUT HIM?
⢠I have a crush on this guy in school, but he likes my best friend. What should I do?!!!
Hey, that sounds a lot like me. But my anger for Piper was starting to mellow into something else. I missed her.
Itâs like all of my friends are ingredients in a delicious dish. (And not something simple like macaroni and cheese, either.) Together, weâre like this chicken my mother makes. I like it because the recipe has no quantities for the ingredients. You just put the chicken in a pan and top it with soy sauce, pepper, garlic, lemon juice and zest, scallions, honey, and paprika. As much or as little of everything as you want. As it cooks, you can smell the flavors warming up and mixing in with one another. First, the honey melts and bubbles into the salty soy sauce. Then the juices surround the chicken, picking up the bold garlic, the zing of the lemon zest, and the oniony scallions. My mom wonât make it unless she has each and every ingredientâeven if sheâs missing something skip-able (if you ask me) like paprika.
âThe sum is greater than the parts,â she has told me more than once. Thatâs the kind of math youâd expect from someone who writes poetry. No Pythagorean Theorem there.
But I was starting to wonder if this was also true of friendship. Piper might be the paprika, but without her, life now seemed as bland as a soggy bowl of corn flakes.
Seventeen
Back to the basement during study hallâthat was the Monday routine for me, Kate, and Piper. As promised, we met to follow up on the backlog of questions, including some from the dance. I never liked to arrive earlier than anyone else in our new basement headquarters. It was dark until you fumbled for the light switch on the wall panel. But that first switch, we learned, only gave you stairwell lighting. Once you reached basement level, you had to aim your way toward the pull cords of bare lightbulbs. Our routine was to wait in the stairwell together and then slowly walk into the darkened space
Big chest
Piper looked like a woman already. Lots of people noticed. She shopped only in womenâs clothing stores. I could buy a thing or two in those sizes, but I didnât need to. OK, if that was really why he chose her over me, what was I supposed to do? Stuffing just didnât really work. What would happen in the summer? Would I flap around our community pool with a wad of soggy tissues in my bikini top?
It was so unfair. I was still waiting for my period and all that came with it. But my brain and my heart were just as grown up as anybodyâs, probably more so. Who else was up at midnight trying to figure out the mysteries of the universe, including how to get a boy to like me more than my beautiful, popular (former) best friend?
I wanted to know what happens between two people when they decide to be together, like Mr. Ford and Ms. Russo. Who says âI love youâ first? I can barely make eye contact with Forrest. Could I ever tell him the truthâhow I think of him every day and try to watch him without looking too obvious?
I imagined Forrest and me ten years from now. I would have grown up (and out) and he would be just as hot, but taller. Iâd be someone who travels for my job, and heâd come to meet me somewhere, like on the cliffs of Capri in Italy. My parents took me there once on vacation, and it was filled with honeymooning couples. Just try to find a table for three thereâno chance. The entire trip, I was crammed in with them at tiny, romantic tables. I was only eleven, but I caught the pie-eyed way my parents sometimes looked at each other there. What makes people become couples?
I know, I know. Iâm not alone in all my wondering. The Pink Locker Society gets oodles of questions about crushes, like:
⢠My crush is acting strange. He is usually happy and funny, but today he yelled at me. What am I supposed to do?
⢠SHOULD I TELL MY CRUSH WHAT I FEEL ABOUT HIM?
⢠I have a crush on this guy in school, but he likes my best friend. What should I do?!!!
Hey, that sounds a lot like me. But my anger for Piper was starting to mellow into something else. I missed her.
Itâs like all of my friends are ingredients in a delicious dish. (And not something simple like macaroni and cheese, either.) Together, weâre like this chicken my mother makes. I like it because the recipe has no quantities for the ingredients. You just put the chicken in a pan and top it with soy sauce, pepper, garlic, lemon juice and zest, scallions, honey, and paprika. As much or as little of everything as you want. As it cooks, you can smell the flavors warming up and mixing in with one another. First, the honey melts and bubbles into the salty soy sauce. Then the juices surround the chicken, picking up the bold garlic, the zing of the lemon zest, and the oniony scallions. My mom wonât make it unless she has each and every ingredientâeven if sheâs missing something skip-able (if you ask me) like paprika.
âThe sum is greater than the parts,â she has told me more than once. Thatâs the kind of math youâd expect from someone who writes poetry. No Pythagorean Theorem there.
But I was starting to wonder if this was also true of friendship. Piper might be the paprika, but without her, life now seemed as bland as a soggy bowl of corn flakes.
Seventeen
Back to the basement during study hallâthat was the Monday routine for me, Kate, and Piper. As promised, we met to follow up on the backlog of questions, including some from the dance. I never liked to arrive earlier than anyone else in our new basement headquarters. It was dark until you fumbled for the light switch on the wall panel. But that first switch, we learned, only gave you stairwell lighting. Once you reached basement level, you had to aim your way toward the pull cords of bare lightbulbs. Our routine was to wait in the stairwell together and then slowly walk into the darkened space
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