We run through trees, over uneven rocks pressed firmly into the earth by generations of adolescents hoping to find something worth running to or from. It’s cold in the autumn of seventh grade when we begin to discover the meaning of our forming figures. Breasts or push up bras are temporarily hidden under heavy coats and are only revealed in locker rooms to classmates and gym teachers that can’t help but peak.

We allow our skin to be touched, but only if it’s a game. They tell us to pretend the fingers sliding up our shirts are the tires of a firetruck that’s desperate to reach its destination. They tell us to call out red light when we want it to stop. They remind us that emergency vehicles do not stop for you or the light. It’s time for round two and They want us to drive our own car, southbound. We aren’t nervous, we want to win and the rules are simple. They start to squeeze, we think this might be cheating but we follow their lead. With a tiny pinch between red painted nails we’re told we’re the cheaters but we know we’ve really just won.

We ride our bikes to the cemetery when the snow starts to fall. Our attempts at mascara have created circles around our eyes but no one tells. We fall on our backs and flap our arms, later we may compare the silhouettes of our angles, but not now.

They arrive, insisting it’s time for a playdate. We cup our hands around the powder and take cover behind tombstones. They sneak behind bushes, getting close enough to catch the edge of our scarves. They pull the knit fabric until it calls us back to them for fear of what our mothers might say about our bare necks. The opportunity cannot be ignored. The distance is closed and hands filled with the dust of our angels empty themselves down our tops, nearly reaching through the skin tight thermals mandated by fathers who must have known. Screams spread through each of us, the nasally kind that everyone knows to ignore.

We sit on tree limbs when we want a moment of silence. In pairs we climb until we feel safe, securely hidden behind springtime buds. We’ve shaved above the knee but our smooth thighs are still stuck beneath Bermuda shorts. We smell like lunchtime, peanut butter and sugary bread. We want to play another game, one where fingers pull on French braids, but his time we are allowed to direct traffic however we see fit.

We hold our breath when they ride Their bikes beneath us, eyes never bothering to look up for what They want. We laugh through our teeth when we are once again left alone on a branch barely big enough for us. Our game has been placed on pause in favor of a glass of lemonade but we hope someone will press play again.

We lay on a dock when the lake has thawed, a towel between our backs and the splintering wood. Our bathing suits somehow still fit despite the forces of the past year. We rest our hands against each other and welcome tan lines in the shape of fingertips. We smell like honey and the sweet tea our mothers made before we left for the afternoon.

We know that They’re near by the way the water moves. Once placid, now filled with artificial waves. We pull our towels over our legs, risking a poke from the dock and avoiding one from Them. We pull apart, silently promising that we will be We in the fall.

Courtney currently resides in Florida and enjoys spending time outdoors with her two wonderful dogs. She graduated from the University of Central Florida and intends to return for further studies into literature and film.