I’ve kept a journal since I was eleven or so. The first one was a green notebook with sketches of The Beatles on the back cover. My name was spelled out in flowery stickers.
I wrote about my two best friends and called them Sus and Cri, which seems silly now, but that’s what I called them. To me, it was the same as “honey,” like saying “I love you” every time those three letter words came out of my mouth—a secret language or twin talk.
And I wrote about boys, a friend of my older brother’s with long curly hair and John Lennon glasses. I would sit on the steps of a school friend’s house to wait for him to dive by on his way home from work, and dreamed we got married and had a baby. I named her Julia after John Lennon’s song on the White Album.
I wrote about the boy in my algebra class with long, pale fingers and glossy black hair. He drew patterns on his hands with a Pilot pen and scored perfectly on tests even though smoked pot outside the lunch room doors, blowing the smoke into his sleeves.
I worried that I was the underdog, not as pretty as my Sus or my Cri, and not as smart or unique, either. I was afraid I would never fall in love and stay that way, but would always be fickle and passionate—twelve forever.