Coming of Age

It is the summer before my freshman year of high school. I greet the world as one would a new friend. Possibility stretches from all directions, reaching out from my pale skin and dissipating into the cloudless sky. I am aware of my insignificance in the grand expanse of the universe, yet secretly convinced that I will prove to be unforgettable. I am sheltered, naive, and still carry that childlike wonder that all adults seem to have forgotten. Before me lies South Pond, its water shimmering from the sun’s reflection, and pulsing in the light. My toes, painted red with polish stolen from my sister, bury themselves in the sand. It feels warm, like a hug. My eyes are wide and as blue as the sky, but for the first time in my life, that is not where people seem to want to look. What is so gravitational about my chest? My aunt and I talk of the upcoming year, her eyes glued to the space below my chin. Suddenly, everything seems so meaningless. I keep talking, but my words drop to the floor, swallowing themselves in dirty sand. The air around my exposed body does not feel as warm and sunny as it did a couple minutes ago. I am aware of every uncovered hair follicle, each one hurting from existence. I leave the storybook of childhood behind. “Whore,” says my aunt, without words. At that moment, that is all that I am or can be.