beautiful laugh from her son. He soared through the air, eyes closed against the rushing wind, two tiny hands wrapped around the chains.
I noticed how easily I could group the kids into their respective parental categories, everyone fitting together like a puzzle. I supposed I could’ve passed for Riley’s aunt or something, which made me feel a little less awkward sitting there. Growing up, Kendra and I were often mistaken for sisters. Less because we looked related, people usually said, but more for how we interacted. Our long hair, rounded faces and big, expressive eyes were similar enough, but it was our sister-like relationship that really got noticed. For many years at Halloween, we dressed up in coordinating costumes like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, just as real sisters might. We shared snacks, clothes, and shoes and we fought like sisters too. One distinguishing characteristic always separated us, however: the light cloud of freckles across my nose and cheeks. I hated them as a child, tried to cover them up as a teen, always wishing to have smooth, porcelain skin like my best friend. Finally, after many years of concealers and bleaching treatments, I resolved myself to my unfortunate genetics.
Once, during my denial phase in high school, Christian caught me plastering face powder over those freckles. It was one of the few times I’ve actually seen him get angry.
“What are you doing?” he said, snatching the powder puff from my hand. Startled, I dropped my compact. The mirror exploded when it hit the concrete floor. Shards skittered down the dusty corridor and underneath a row of lockers.
“Christian!” I yelled, kicking the pieces toward him. “What the hell was that for?”
His rage shattered with the compact. “I’m sorry,” he said, handing me back the useless powder puff. “I just don’t think you should cover up your freckles.”
Tears formed in the corners of my eyes, a result of both my embarrassment and the mourning for the designer makeup that cost three months’ allowance.
“They’re ugly.” I busied myself with retrieving the plastic casing and whatever makeup hadn’t turned to dust.
Christian just shoved his hands into his pockets, muttered something, and walked away. He left me to clean up his mess, still fuming. For days afterwards, he ate lunch alone and avoided me in the hallway between classes. I didn’t call to check on him. A week later, a replacement compact sat on the top shelf of my locker, a smiley face drawn on the box. I left a thank-you note in Christian’s locker and everything went back to normal. Just like that. We never spoke about the incident again.
As I watched Kendra lift Riley from his swing and adjust the sleeves of his jacket, I realized I never told her about that. It was a special memory, reserved for only me and Christian. The thought of him jarred me back to why we were here.
I decided to jump right in. “So, Kendra? Don’t you want to hear about this new girl?”
The walk home passed quickly as I detailed every tiny coincidence, every sign the universe had given that these two should be together. Kendra seemed equally amazed but, ever the skeptical one, she couldn’t stop poking holes in my plan. Mainly, that we would be rushing him to get past Marcy by introducing a new girl—or as she put it, “Hello? Rebound girlfriend?” Back at the Peterson’s house, Riley took his nap upstairs, while his mother stretched out on the couch and found the following problems with Savannah, and I quote:
“Christian doesn’t like blondes, does he?”
“What about that whole ‘opposites attract’ thing? I mean, look at Grant and me!”
“Won’t this complicate things for you at work?”
“What if Savannah is just some kind of photographer groupie? Aren’t the chicks at weddings always, like, salivating over him?”
And my personal favorite: “Do we really want to hang out with
I noticed how easily I could group the kids into their respective parental categories, everyone fitting together like a puzzle. I supposed I could’ve passed for Riley’s aunt or something, which made me feel a little less awkward sitting there. Growing up, Kendra and I were often mistaken for sisters. Less because we looked related, people usually said, but more for how we interacted. Our long hair, rounded faces and big, expressive eyes were similar enough, but it was our sister-like relationship that really got noticed. For many years at Halloween, we dressed up in coordinating costumes like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, just as real sisters might. We shared snacks, clothes, and shoes and we fought like sisters too. One distinguishing characteristic always separated us, however: the light cloud of freckles across my nose and cheeks. I hated them as a child, tried to cover them up as a teen, always wishing to have smooth, porcelain skin like my best friend. Finally, after many years of concealers and bleaching treatments, I resolved myself to my unfortunate genetics.
Once, during my denial phase in high school, Christian caught me plastering face powder over those freckles. It was one of the few times I’ve actually seen him get angry.
“What are you doing?” he said, snatching the powder puff from my hand. Startled, I dropped my compact. The mirror exploded when it hit the concrete floor. Shards skittered down the dusty corridor and underneath a row of lockers.
“Christian!” I yelled, kicking the pieces toward him. “What the hell was that for?”
His rage shattered with the compact. “I’m sorry,” he said, handing me back the useless powder puff. “I just don’t think you should cover up your freckles.”
Tears formed in the corners of my eyes, a result of both my embarrassment and the mourning for the designer makeup that cost three months’ allowance.
“They’re ugly.” I busied myself with retrieving the plastic casing and whatever makeup hadn’t turned to dust.
Christian just shoved his hands into his pockets, muttered something, and walked away. He left me to clean up his mess, still fuming. For days afterwards, he ate lunch alone and avoided me in the hallway between classes. I didn’t call to check on him. A week later, a replacement compact sat on the top shelf of my locker, a smiley face drawn on the box. I left a thank-you note in Christian’s locker and everything went back to normal. Just like that. We never spoke about the incident again.
As I watched Kendra lift Riley from his swing and adjust the sleeves of his jacket, I realized I never told her about that. It was a special memory, reserved for only me and Christian. The thought of him jarred me back to why we were here.
I decided to jump right in. “So, Kendra? Don’t you want to hear about this new girl?”
The walk home passed quickly as I detailed every tiny coincidence, every sign the universe had given that these two should be together. Kendra seemed equally amazed but, ever the skeptical one, she couldn’t stop poking holes in my plan. Mainly, that we would be rushing him to get past Marcy by introducing a new girl—or as she put it, “Hello? Rebound girlfriend?” Back at the Peterson’s house, Riley took his nap upstairs, while his mother stretched out on the couch and found the following problems with Savannah, and I quote:
“Christian doesn’t like blondes, does he?”
“What about that whole ‘opposites attract’ thing? I mean, look at Grant and me!”
“Won’t this complicate things for you at work?”
“What if Savannah is just some kind of photographer groupie? Aren’t the chicks at weddings always, like, salivating over him?”
And my personal favorite: “Do we really want to hang out with
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