The Brunette and The Blonde
The girls walked down the street. They were tall. They wore boots pulled up over theirsweatpants creating scrunches of fabric mid-calf. The way they walked was incredibly distinct. They seemed to have a great deal of determination. They were on a mission. They had snuck out of the house late last night, defying their parents and anyone else who dared stop them. They were the type of girls to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom at school. One of the girls was blonde and one was brunette, but both of them had long, unruly hair that floated around gently in the wind. The blonde one had a boyfriend. Her boyfriend was a rebel too. They had been together since grade school, but their relationship was incredibly tumultuous. The brunette hated the boyfriend. She thought he was a bum, but smiled and laughed at his jokes because she loved her friend. She wanted her to be happy. Their hair was messy. Clearly unbrushed. They wore their boots over their sweatpants, tucked in. Both of them had random streaks of color in their hair, blue and green, possibly some purple too. Last night they had what they would call a stroke of genius. They absolutely had to dye their hair. It would be epic. It would be revolutionary. They hoped to turn heads as they clomped down the street. They wanted their rebellious-snuck-out-of-the-house-under-the-cover-of-dark-cigarette-smoking nature to be clear to the world. They didn’t care what their hair looked like, but they wanted to make a statement. The girls were tall. They marched off down the street as if their lives depended on it. They wore boots, so their feet made clomping sounds as they walked. The tall girls had colorful streaks in their hair and they were rebels.
To Stomp is To Be Grand
Boots are fabulous. Boots are power. Our boots mean the world to us. Boots make us taller, even though we already tend to tower. Every time we stomp down the sidewalk, side by side, clacking along, we feel the power from the boot surge through our bodies. The day that our boots break is the day we wrap duct tape around the sole– each pair shall be worn to sheer oblivion. And finding the right boot, the perfect boot, can be a tough task. Just like finding a friend. The very best friend. But once we ve found the perfect match, we are free to continue on, stomping, surging with fabulousnessand power. We each already had the perfect pair, and once we found each other, the perfect girl to stomp around with, we were free. One Sunday morning we woke up with the sun. This was rare. Yetwe did what we always did. We pulled on our boots over our sweatpants and stomped out the door. This stomp was a happy stomp. We stomped with great joy. That day we went on a grand adventure. We stomped all the way to the coffee shop down the street to grab our very favorite tea and a scone to share. A savory scone, never, not ever, a sweet scone (very important). We loved this cafe because there was always a record on. Today it was the Beatles. Whichever song it was, it was quite fitting for how we felt that morning. A happy, nearly grand little tune. Our next stop was the little park down the street. We sat a while on a wooden bench. We felt the sunlight on our shoulders and our upturned faces. We told each other how cool the green and blue stripes of color looked in our hair. We fed the ducks little left-over scraps from our shared savory scone. They fought over each little crumb. They were very aggressive, surprisingly so, but we understood. The scone was very good. Once we were satisfied with our duck watching, our grand adventure could continue on. We continued to stomp down the street, waving hello to an adorable old couple crossing the at the end of the block. They were very cute. Arm in arm, headed to visit the ducks as we just had. This was a lovely day, a special day, one to remember. These types of days are so very important as they happen once in a blue moon. A day where our only responsibility in the world was to visit the ducks and stomp around in our boots and have a grand adventure. So we continued on. We decided that it was time for a dip in the ocean. We stomped all the way to the shore, finally chucking off the boots and splashing into the water. We spent the day sleeping in the sun and finding sublime little rocks and shells and things to bring home. We added our days work to our box of shared memories. The little blue box that eternalized days such as these. A little soft clink of the gold latches into place signaled another fulfilled adventure. That night we went off to dream overjoyed. We’d had ourselves a grand adventure indeed.
The Shoes of the Older Girls
I’ve always loved to dance. I began with ballet around age 6. There was something about the little bun, leotard, tights, and shoes combo that really got me. Dancing allowed me to express something very specific. Something that to this day I’ve struggled to express in any other form. When I was about 11 years old, I was allowed to go on pointe. I remember the day my teacher told me I could finally dance across the floor in the special shoes that only the older girls got to wear. I would have said this was the very best day of my life. As I got older, and life got crazier, and I had to decide how I truly wanted to spend my time, ballet was pushed aside. I left that specific feeling, one I’d been unable to find any other way, the feeling epitomized by the day I got on pointe, behind. As my dancing days grew farther away, each time I came upon a memento of my dancing past I felt a sort of grief. I turned 17 and found the feeling again. I danced and felt the feeling, the one I had been unable to find since my days on pointe, during the most epic of dance parties with the girl who I called my very best friend. I danced with my whole heart, moving every limb of my body. I had danced all my life, in different ways, under different circumstances, but this time. I could tell by her slightly awkward movements to the faster-paced music she had done ballet once as well. There is a sense of gracefulness that one must maintain as a ballerina, which doesn’t exactly translate to bopping on the beat. I knew these ever-so-slightly jerky movements myself. I then knew that she knew about the special shoes that only the older girls got to wear and the feeling of the last bobby pin sliding into the perfect bun. I was so very delighted. I had found a way to share the feeling that’s impossible to verbalize.
The Ultimate Keeper of Secrets and Hopes and Dreams
A little red journal held her most prized possessions, her thoughts, hopes, and lovely little descriptions of daily life. She wrote about what it meant to be a girl, what it meant to be a person, and what it meant to be a friend. One thing she wrote, one particularly significant thing, went as follows:
“this secret language of glances and tears.
she painted my toes red, help my hair up
soft smiles of comfort, confessed our affairs
our stories stay locked in a duo club
we’ll lavish ourselves in glitter shadow
pretty plaid skirts, and camera flashes
blissful dances, diet coke to swallow
two yawns, and our night’s energy crashes
coffee sipped between recalled memories
our freedom found in this little cafe
chatting through our wandering minds with ease
and yet two years from now our little lives no longer orbiting this synchronized (Barker).”
This encapsulated the feeling. The true meaning. It was important. She knew this, which is why she kept it in her journal. The little red journal that held every special little thought very carefully. The little red journal was a protector, guarding important words, even the most quietly whispered secrets. Those ones, the ones you barely dare to say out loud. But this poem, these particular words, didn’t feel like they should be a secret. She shared them with a sweet smile. Her friend, her best friend, the girl she stomped with, the girl she danced with, read the words and felt it all deep in her veins. She felt each camera flash, remembering the long nights of posing strangely in the funkiest outfits they could possibly conceive. The question “what to do tonight” consistently answered with “photoshoot?” She tasted each lightly sugared cup of coffee, complete with a splash of milk (2% milk– perfect). But most fiercely, she felt the impending shift. Not necessarily impending doom, just the unalterable and ever-looming existence of the future. The unknown was laid out before her. She knew full well that time passes, “things change!” However, it was impossible to conceive a world where the girl she once lavished herself in glitter with, the girl she stomped with, the girl most safely stashed in her orbit might be so very far away. She was brought back to reality with a simple hug by this special, glittery, stomping partner. Sometimes it’s all a girl needs. And she felt somewhat reassured, for the time being, that that unalterable and ever-looming future could remain a passing thought. It really had to remain a passing thought, lingered on briefly, and then discarded so that her mind could continue to wander with ease. Another day passed, she sat in a little pink cafe in her duo club, speaking aimlessly and freely and thoughtfully. But one day… something whispered in the back of her mind, the orbit was destined to shift.