Pieces of Me
I sat Indian style on my queen-sized bed, the way I did in kindergarten when I was in Mrs. Hughes class. My feet were curled tightly under my petite thighs, and my torso was hunched over, in a way that would surely displease my mother if she had been in the room with me. I could feel my eyes watering as I gazed thoughtfully at the three diverse girls sitting around me. Despite our obvious differences in appearance and personality, we all share the same security, hope and happiness that will carry me through my life. I thought about what life would be like without them and I shuddered at the thought.
Mahta rested on her knees, head held high. Her enormous chocolate brown eyes captured my attention as she spoke, “Remember that night when we ordered pizza and I said to the delivery boy, I hope that pizza doesn’t have mushrooms on it, because mushrooms are fungi, but I do like fun guys?” True this was a happy memory, though now-a-days we look back at our corny selves and laugh. Mahta, naive at that time, did not know how much she would be enjoying “fun guys” three years down the road. Her wavy hair and perfect smile would draw them in like bees gravitating towards flowers. Sarah was laying diligently next to Mahta, curls sprouting from her head, dangling down the light complexity of her face and illuminating the patches of cherry red on her cheeks. Last but not least there was Jana. A girl much curvier than the typical sized two figure that all teens strived for. She did, however, have a simple beauty, a beauty that accommodated her strict morals and beliefs.
We were all talking and laughing, reminiscing about the dramas of eighth grade drama class. The infinite love triangles, a Chicago trip of terror, ice-skating, hot chocolate, instant messaging, Six Flags, Fridays, and the list poured on. Our reminiscing was interrupted by the sound of Sarah gasping and exclaiming, “Remember the song that Ray wrote for me for one of our theatre projects?”
“Haha, that was an interesting day. Oh, don’t forget about the time we all went to the movies, the Pink Panther I think, and everyone got extremely angry,” I said.
“Or the time Mahta forgot to wear her bra to school and we were all laughing at her and the guys were yelling at us because she was crying,” Jana said with exhilaration.
“Oh geeze…,” we all sighed. A container of ice cream fit for a sumo wrestler lay in the center of the four of us. We each picked up a spoon. The shiny silverware felt cool against my skin and sent chills up and down my spine. Suddenly, as though it was a race, each spoon sprinted into the richness of the Neopolitan ice cream. Jabbing and poking, miniscule craters began appearing before my eyes, and the amount of ice cream was decreasing rapidly. The four of us devoured it in just seconds, beginning our night on a full stomach.
“I cannot believe that we just ate that whole container of ice cream,” I said rubbing my belly.
“Me either, I don’t think I am going to eat anything for a month, I look like an oompa loompa,” Jana replied.
“Shut up, you’re so dramatic,” Sarah said.
“I wish this didn’t have to end…” Mahta sighed. She was remembering that this was one of our last sleepovers with all four of us, for Mahta was moving to Illinois in a week.
After our intense battle against the ice cream, we all went downstairs into an enclosed room and sat on a blue frayed rug. I turned the switch off and brought out a yellow flashlight to shine on our notebook and a plain white shirt large enough to fit all four of us at the same time. We conversed silently, a secret meeting to proclaim our sacred friendship.
“Let’s write this on the shirt: Respect yourself, be persistent, be determined,….Life is Now,” Mahta said.
“Yeah, I like that,” the rest of us replied. On the front in big letters we wrote, “The Sisterhood.” Though it was a plagiarized name, it encompassed what we meant to each other. Plus, the sweet, innocent eighth graders that we were could only formulate ideas based off of others. I do believe however, it was the thought that counted the most.
The next morning, after everyone left, I walked into my room where the shirt lay on my bed. I was going to be the first to wear the shirt and capture some great moment that was supposed to take place in it. I gently moved my hand across the letters, across this holy piece of white cloth that before held no significant value. I picked up the shirt and pulled it over my head and onto my fragile body. It swallowed me whole, disguising my thin figure in folds of white cloth. As I was clinging onto the shirt that lay on my chest I felt the night before come to life. I visualized each detail, each moment with my friends, my sisters. I flung my arms up in the air and fell gracefully backwards onto my bed. My head faced up towards the ceiling, and I smiled as I realized I would always have each piece of me.