We turned thirteen and it seemed wherever we were, there were hands and tongues. There were sloe-eyes and licked lips wherever our new breasts and lengthening thighs moved.
Angela and Gigi and I showed up at Sylvia's house one Saturday morning when the family was gone. Sylvia, able to sneak us inside, stood ironing her Catholic school uniform as we talked. It happened, Angela said. I'm bleeding.
Finally, we said.
We thought you'd never join us on this side, we said.
We were teenagers now, our bodies different but all of us still the same height, all of us still blending into each other.
We found places to be together, sharing a joint on the stairs of the closed library, stepping over prayer rugs to sit on my bed, cutting two pizza slices into four at Royal Pizzeria because if we bought something, we could sit for hours. Park swings, handball courts, the spot of sun on the corner where a windowless factory set dozens of pale, tired women free every day at 5:00 p.m.
©2017 by Jacqueline Woodson. Reprinted with permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
