Change gives you that. Walking down the street to the dentist. Mom’s at home with your sister. You have to call her when you’re there. You can’t use the stove while you’re home alone. You don’t like change, so the thought doesn’t cross your mind because Mom cooks. Middle School is a mutation. Everybody is changing. The girls talk about training bras and boys. You wear beige, adult woman bras because your body changed in seventh grade. Walking home with your friends, you are followed by an adult male in a car for several blocks. You and your friends hide inside of Steve’s Market until it’s safe to continue home. You have to drive but you can’t because this has never been an expectation. You’re a shaky driver. You fail the road test. Your friends are miles ahead, riding the wave of change. You are in love. You don’t want this to change. You cross your fingers and wish on every eyelash. You receive your license on the second try. Change. You drive yourself to Dad’s now; every other weekend. Your birth control prescription is ready at Walgreens. You drive there yourself to pick it up. While you’re there you buy a new plastic hair clip because you’ve lost the others. You swipe your debit card. You avoid the men outside at the bus
Change gives you that. Walking down the street to the dentist. Mom’s at home with your sister. You have to call her when you’re there. You can’t use the stove while you’re home alone. You don’t like change, so the thought doesn’t cross your mind because Mom cooks. Middle School is a mutation. Everybody is changing. The girls talk about training bras and boys. You wear beige, adult woman bras because your body changed in seventh grade. Walking home with your friends, you are followed by an adult male in a car for several blocks. You and your friends hide inside of Steve’s Market until it’s safe to continue home. You have to drive but you can’t because this has never been an expectation. You’re a shaky driver. You fail the road test. Your friends are miles ahead, riding the wave of change. You are in love. You don’t want this to change. You cross your fingers and wish on every eyelash. You receive your license on the second try. Change. You drive yourself to Dad’s now; every other weekend. Your birth control prescription is ready at Walgreens. You drive there yourself to pick it up. While you’re there you buy a new plastic hair clip because you’ve lost the others. You swipe your debit card. You avoid the men outside at the bus