People ask us how long we’ve been friends, and we are stumped. We remember meeting in dance class. We remember glueing ourselves together without talking about it, and the glue slowly hardening until we were inseparable. It wasn’t a question of whether we would be parters for that first ballet combination, it was obvious. We talked to color in the boxes, but the shapes were already there. We understood with only the first half of a sentence. It’s not clear where the “friends” line is. Did we cross it without noticing, or is it on a different road altogether? People laugh when we almost try to tell them we aren’t friends. The idea is too absurd for them to even consider. We understand though.
We aren’t anything special. It’s just me and her, and then the me and her in the mirror. Eight pointed feet, total. Four straight faces, until we mess up. Eight eyes that fly like magnets to the exact point on the mirror that is our nucleus. We laugh invisibly at our mistake before continuing the combination.
People assume we go to school together. We don’t, though I know all her friends from the stories she tells as we brush, twist, and pin our long hair. I wave my hands around to explain a horribly embarrassing high-five-gone-wrong with a certain boy earlier that day. Our eyes meet in the mirror, I see she is laughing at me, and suddenly I can laugh at me too.
“Friends” is only seven letters. Seven is a good number (that’s how many Harry Potter books there are), but it’s too small for us. “Siblings” is closer. Eight letters. Eight pointed feet. Eight eyes that will always be there to laugh when we mess up.
YOU ARE READING
Vanishing Girls Writing Challenge
Short StoryI loved the stories I read this month. You guys are getting better and better with every writing challenge! This challenge was especially fun because of the variety in the entries. There were poems, fiction, non-fiction… I loved them all! Below are...
