Colette, 10

I was ten years old and writing my own obituary. Not because I was dying, but because I was living—to one hundred! I had to make up the story of my life and share what I hoped to accomplish by the time I was dead. It was homework for the one-hundredth day of school. It was assigned by my ancient history teacher, Mr. Hendricks. And let me clarify; I didn’t mean as in ancient history; I meant that he’s ancient. He was old as dirt.

Dinosaurs like Mr. Hendricks must wonder about dying a lot. It’s what they did after school. They thought about becoming worm food during their short time left on Earth before going under the earth.

He was really, really old. He had bushy white eyebrows and a bald head, except for the u-shaped fuzzy gray hair that swooped from ear to ear around the back. He had deep wrinkles near his eyes, especially when he smiled. All signs pointed that he was an old fogey—a geezer. He must be like one hundred years old. It was a wonder he could even stand up in class and teach. Maybe we should know how old he was to prepare ourselves for his imminent death. We were going to need a substitute teacher.

“Mr. Hendricks, how old are you?” I blurted out in class one day.

“I’m sixty-five,” he confidently replied.

Yep. Ancient. That’s close enough to one hundred. This could very well be his end, and he needed us to help write his life story. At the rickety old age of sixty-five, he was ready to keel over any minute. In fact, I couldn’t believe he was still alive.

To appeal to his apparent last dying wish, he made us write out our obituaries. I didn’t even know how to spell oh-bit-choo-air-ee. And as my grandmother preached, “If you can’t spell it, don’t use it.” So now I had to write about something I couldn’t spell. Or pronounce.

How was I supposed to know when I would die? I chewed on my yellow #2 pencil, trying to wonder, but instead staring blankly at my ancient teacher. I tried hard to imagine my life at death. It was impossible to see. I was ten years old and in the fifth grade. I didn’t even know what I was having for dinner tonight, let alone what my last meal would be.

Mr. Hendricks offered to help us get our “creative juices flowing,” a phrase I didn’t understand but that he explained as brainstorming. He drank a bottle of prune juice daily, which was probably why his brain was so juice-logged. In his attempt to help our brain juices flow, he gave us clipped newspaper oh-bit-choo-air-ees of old people who had died. Some clippings showed side-by-side pictures of the people from when they were young and beautiful to now when they were old and pruny. It didn’t seem very nice to show what time had done to someone. Those victims of old age were unrecognizable from the beautiful pictures taken in their youth. So why even show the pictures? It was cruel and thoughtless. Is that what life would do to me? I didn’t want to get old and look like that.

So I decided I wouldn’t do that for my oh-bit-choo-air-ee. I would only show a picture of me as a sweet, chubby baby. Babies are cute, not like wrinkled old people. I wanted people to remember me as a button, you know, cute just like I was. There would be no picture of me with thin gray hair, skin peppered with brown spots, and a face that resembled shriveled fruit. Besides, I would never look like that at one hundred. I would age more responsibly and carefully. These people surely didn’t know what they were doing to age like that.

The newspaper clippings were full of big words like preceded, visitation, and interment. Again, words I couldn’t pronounce. I wouldn’t use them because my grandmother said so.

Our teacher told us to work slowly, reading through each person’s story and jotting down simple questions for ourselves, like the what and where of our lives. The questions were supposed to help us figure out what we wanted our story to say and where our lives would lead us. I began mapping out my fabulicious life based on my favorite board game, the Game of Life. The point of the game was to get a career, get married, get kids, and get as much money as possible to retire. That must also be the point of life, so I based my obituary on it.

I thought about jobs that paid like a bazillion dollars. I’d buy fancy cars and houses all over the world. I’d definitely buy the dream dollhouse my parents refused to get me. I’d buy anything I wanted because luck would give me loads of money. I smiled, knowing my husband would be like the prince from Cinderella.

Will I have children and grandchildren? I wondered. I decided I’d have five children. No, make it six. And more grandkids and great-grandkids than I could count. They’d get all As on their report cards. They’d be pretty, with sparkly white teeth. And they’d be sweet as pie and thoughtful and caring like me. “Enough about them,” I said aloud under my breath. “I need to think about myself.”

Who would be survived by me? I pondered silently. I had to think about this one. I wasn’t even sure what that meant from the oh-bit-choo-air-ee. I figured it was all the people left behind who would be lonely after I was gone, leaving a giant hole in their lives. They would miss me so much. But there would be too many survived by people who loved me, so I better only name my best friend, Julia. 

How will I die? When will it happen? And where? Yuck, these were yucky questions. I squirmed uncomfortably in my desk chair. Who wanted to think about death anyway? But I had homework to finish, which required asking gross questions and giving gross answers.

I finished the questions about my deadness. Now I was ready to write. Mr. Hendricks gave us the whole hour in class to do it. I gnawed on my pencil as I struggled to put words to paper. It took the entire time, and I didn’t get to go out for early recess like the other kids who raced through their life stories. I finally dropped my chewed pencil on my desk, satisfied with my oh-bit-choo-air-ee. I felt good about the next ninety years of my perfect life and the decisions I made for my future.

The next day Mr. Hendricks announced we would have to read our homework to the whole class. It was bad enough that we had to plan our deaths, but now we had to listen to how everyone else would bite the dust, too. I didn’t care about how dead as a doornail the other kids were or how their lives turned out—except for Julia.

The first student got up in class and read the story of his life and death. It was awful. Were we supposed to clap for that? Everyone shifted nervously, looking to our teacher for a cue.

Mr. Hendricks began to clap his hands together and shout, “Bravo!”

Of course, he would be the one to like it. That was his job as a teacher. He went through the rest of the class, calling up each student to read their deadly autobiographies. They were as varied as the students in class. Then Julia went up. She hesitantly stood from her chair and walked timidly toward the front of the room. Her face burned red. She carefully pulled a wadded-up piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolded it. Her hands shook. She began to read, stressing every syllable, giving way to the nervous crackle in her voice:

“Julia, whose name means ‘youthful,’ lived to be one hundred. Julia spent her life in service to others. She enjoyed doing ordinary things. Nothing was exciting about her life. It was simple, but she was happy. She married young, had many kids, and spent time with her grandkids, watching them play. When she retired from a chocolate factory, she spent her retirement reading books and knitting baby booties. Rocking in her rocking chair gave her great satisfaction. She never moved away from her hometown. She stayed married to her husband for seventy years. They died hours apart, still happily married because they couldn’t live without each other. Her lifelong best friend Colette was at her bedside holding her hand when she died. She had a content life, and it all went according to plan.”

Julia ran back to her desk in the back of the room and buried her face. The spotlight wasn’t her thing. 

I was called up last. But I didn’t read my oh-bit-choo-air-ee. When Grandmother Imelda, my dad’s mom, learned about our assignment, she was mortified and said I shouldn’t be subjected to this morbidness. So she wrote a letter for me to give to Mr. Hendricks instead. I read it out loud.

“Dear Mr. Hendricks (aka Grim Reaper), I’m utterly appalled you would have these innocent children write such an abominable assignment. It’s distasteful to ask ten-year-olds to think about their deaths. They don’t need to worry about old age and death until they’re there. I’m much closer than they are and don’t think about old age or death. Protect their innocent minds from reality. Regretfully, Colette’s Grandmother, Imelda”

Nobody clapped. Not even Mr. Hendricks. Like Julia, I wanted to run back to my desk and throw my head down. But I stood frozen. I was humiliated that I didn’t get applause. I wasn’t sure if I’d return to fifth grade tomorrow. Grandmother Imelda had just ruined the rest of my life.

“Well, that wasn’t quite the assignment,” Mr. Hendricks said. “It’s not about your death but how you choose to live your life. I respect her opinion to not let you read it. However, I still expect you to turn it in for a grade.”

“I can still read it,” I said, knowing Grandmother Imelda wouldn’t be happy. But I wanted applause, too. I unfolded my oh-bit-choo-air-ee and carefully read it to the class.

“Sadly, Colette died at one hundred years old but looked decades younger. Her beauty lasted as long as her age. She peacefully nodded off for an eternal dirt nap. She was very popular. She is survived by many admirers who thought she was amazing, including her gorgeous, devoted, rich, loving, charming husband, six adoring, well-behaved children who minded their manners and never talked back, and her wonderful parents who gave her almost everything she asked for. She lived an exciting life. She was an accomplished opera singer, Oscar-nominated actress, Pulitzer-prize-winning author, even a gifted scientist who discovered all kinds of scientific things, and vetaranarian, vetranaryan, animal doctor. Her charm and brilliance were a breath of fresh air to all. Donations may be made to a charity of your choice as long as it’s the ‘Colette Piggy Bank Fund’ of which she was a devoted supporter. Colette will never, ever, ever be forgotten.”

Everyone clapped enthusiastically this time. I was sure my oh-bit-choo-air-ee got the loudest round of applause. I curtsied to the class, celebrating the perfect life I would have.

Julia, 11 1/2

I started driving today. Ignore the fact I was only eleven-and-a-half. Not sixteen and legally qualified to. But as I said, I started driving today. Really, what’s the difference between eleven-and-a-half and sixteen?

Colette and I took Papa’s car out for a joy ride. I knew how to drive. Abuelo, my grandpa, taught me how to drive his old beat-up pickup truck on dusty back roads when I was really young—like six months ago. Never mind, I sat on his lap while he drove and simply steered. But I considered this enough driver’s training. Abuelo always taught me well, and I trusted everything he said. And he said I was a good driver. I decided to test my newfound driving skills because Colette wanted ice cream, and she said we were too cool now to ride our bikes to the ice cream parlor. She dared me to drive and said she’d buy me an ice cream sundae if I did it.

I took the dare and jumped in the driver’s seat while Colette took command as my copilot. We felt so grown-up. Driving was something adults did, and here we were, taking the wheel by the horns. Or was it the bull by the horns? I didn’t know. I was just a kid.

I was a bit too short to reach the gas pedal, so I adjusted my seat forward. I still sat too low in the driver’s seat, so I stuffed my backpack under my bottom to boost me up. I could barely see above the steering wheel. I turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. It was a thrilling and terrifying sound. I nervously gripped the steering wheel and backed out of the driveway. I slowly inched the car up to the intersection at the end of our street. No cars were coming from either direction. I was relieved. The ice cream parlor wasn’t far.

You can do this, I told myself. You’re like the little engine that could.

Colette sat in her seat motionless. She was as pale as Abuelo's transparent skin. I couldn’t look at her because she made me feel jittery and lose confidence in my driving ability. My knuckles turned white like Colette’s face. I gripped the steering wheel so hard that my hands went numb. As we made a jerky snail’s pace down the road, people passed by us fast. Some blew their horns and shouted obscenities at us. The nerve of people!

“Get the bleep off the road, ya old fogey!” one man yelled. (I can’t say the bleeped word because I wasn’t allowed to swear).

“Stupid geezer!” 

“Move over, granny!”

“Crazy old driver!”

The verbal assaults fired away. Abuelo would not appreciate these insults. I guess other drivers thought I was elderly because I could barely see above the dashboard and was driving ever so slowly. Who else drives this way except senior citizens? Illegally driving kids, I guess.

When the ice cream parlor came into view, I breathed a sigh of relief. Our journey was half over. I felt victorious. But I rejoiced too soon. As we turned into the parking lot, I was besieged by cars coming and going. Backing out and pulling in. Going this way and that. It was a parking lot, but it felt like a chess match on wheels. Who would make the next move? I had driven on country roads but not in parking lots.

I panicked in confusion and hit the gas pedal instead of the brake. The car lurched forward. It rammed through the yellow picket fence, over the flower boxes, and into a picnic table outside the ice cream parlor, missing the patrons by the length of an ice cream cone. I finally slammed on the brakes and stalled the car, but not before hitting the outside soft-serve ice cream machine. The car stopped amidst chocolate and vanilla ice cream swirling onto the hood. The bumper was seriously bruised. And so was my ego.

“WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?” Colette screamed.

“This is all your fault!” I yelled back at her. “If you hadn’t dared me, I wouldn’t have done it.”

The terror on her face shook me back to the reality of how much trouble I was in. Her reaction was only a preview of what I expected to encounter with my parents. 

I was right. After the police told them the story, they said they were grounding me for life. I knew it wasn’t possible to ground me for life. But they might ground me until I was fifty. I had never been in so much trouble. I was a goody two shoes and had always worked hard not to misbehave.

Believe it or not, I did minor damage to Papa’s car. But I wrecked the fence and flowers. I would be forced to pay the owners out of my piggy bank by doing chores for years. I pinky-promised I wouldn’t drive again until I had my license, which Mama and Papa pushed back until I was eighteen years old as a punishment. I wouldn’t rat out Abuelo. I didn’t want him to get in trouble for teaching me to drive. I was afraid he’d go to jail, so I stayed silent.

“What compelled you to do such a mindless, stupid thing?” Mama asked.

The shrug of my shoulders must have convinced my parents of my ignorance. Abuelo was off the hook. I would defend him until the day I died. I also vowed I would never get in trouble ever again. I always followed the rules, except this once, and it cost me a lot of piggy bank money.

Because of my joyriding, I was ordered to do community service and help at the senior center where Mama worked as a chair aerobics instructor. Colette’s parents gave her the same punishment for being an accomplice. They wanted to scare her so bad that she wouldn’t drive before she got her license. It worked—she was scared to death to be near the old people at the center.

“I’d rather crash into another building than sit with old crazy coots,” she declared. 

But I was tickled with the idea of providing company to lonely seniors. Mama said they needed young blood to connect with their youthful inner selves. Whatever that meant.

On our first day, I joined right in. For me, it was entertainment. For Colette, it was like being hung by her eyelids.

When bingo started, I gave Colette the easy task of calling numbers. I wanted to help the seniors place plastic chips on their cards. They smiled at me a lot and liked to call me “dearie.” They seemed so happy to have young people in their presence. 

Colette’s voice monotonously droned on as she called bingo numbers.

“B-5… O-64… N-44…”

The tedium caused many seniors to fall asleep sitting up, so I played their cards for them. What makes old people sleep so much? I wondered.

Bingo went on all afternoon. They sure liked it. When the final bingo was yelled, an old woman waved me over to her table. She bore a delightful resemblance to Mrs. Claus. She had white, fluffy hair like cotton balls. And her face was covered with deep folds, which gave away the secret that she had lived a long life.

“Hi, Florence,” I said, reading her name tag. 

“I’ve not seen you here before, young lady. What’s your name?” she asked sweetly.

“I’m Julia, and I’m eleven-and-a-half.” It was important she knew I was eleven-and-a-half and not just eleven.

“What brings you to this place meant for old folks?” Florence asked.

“I got into trouble,” I confessed. “So I have to do service hours and work here at the center.” My face must’ve shown the regret I was feeling.

Florence smiled. “But that means you’re a very lucky girl.”

“How’s that?” I wondered.

“If it weren’t for that, you wouldn’t be sitting here next to me right now,” she teased. I so wanted to hug this Mrs. Claus. She was bubbly and cute.

“But what I did wasn’t so lucky,” I insisted.

“You’ll make all kinds of mistakes in life, but that’s how you learn and grow,” she said. “It’s okay to fail at things. What’d you do anyway?”

“I stole Papa’s car and went out for a joyride to get ice cream,” I explained. “And I lied about it.”

“Oh dear,” she replied, smiling sympathetically. “You’ll save yourself regret in life by being honest, and you’ll truly enjoy a life of freedom.”

“I feel terrible about it.”

“I bet you do,” Florence agreed. “It’s your inner guidepost warning you to live your life with integrity. Don’t bend the rules or take shortcuts; you’ll sleep soundly with a clear conscience every night. What’s hard to understand at eleven-and-a-half,” she explained, “is how far-reaching dishonesty can spread. As you get older, you can see the ripple effect of your actions more and more.”

“Thanks for sharing with me,” I told her. I liked Florence.

“I’ve learned all kinds of lessons in my ninety years,” she said. “I only wish young people wanted to hear my pearls of wisdom. It’s difficult to share the lessons of life with adolescents. They think they’re know-it-alls. They aren’t interested in listening.”

I was interested. I wanted to keep talking with her, but it was time to go. 

“If you return, I’ll share more,” Florence promised. “But the true teacher is time and experience. You’ll only be able to grow wise as you grow old. Wisdom doesn’t come from lectures by fogeys like me. It comes from living.”

Her eyes twinkled as she passed her life lessons on to me. I couldn’t wait to return and talk with Florence. I loved the influence the elderly could have on my life.

Colette, 12

“You’re a woman now!” Mom proudly proclaimed, crouching over me as I sat on the toilet.

I shrieked when I used the bathroom and discovered I was bleeding. It was my first period. I was taught about menstruation in health class, but though I was prepared for this moment, experiencing it for the first time was shocking. Mom had heard my yelp echo from the bathroom and rushed in. When she saw the red-stained toilet paper, she awkwardly hugged me as I sat indiscreetly on the toilet. Mom’s eyes welled with big, juicy tears.

“I’m so proud of you,” she continued to gush. “This is an important rite of passage into womanhood. You’re not a little girl anymore. This is a big moment.”

Exactly. This was a big, dig-a-hole-and-disappear moment. I didn’t want this ridiculous attention. And while I sat in total vulnerability on the toilet seat, she took the next twenty minutes telling me about the birds, the bees, the flowers, and the trees.

I knew about this gross life transition, but she didn’t care when I told her I’d already learned about “the change” at school. She explained things I didn’t want to hear ever again as I sat exposed on the porcelain throne with my pants down to my ankles. She still hadn’t given me a chance to move off the seat as she blabbed and cried.

But I should’ve braced myself. It was nothing compared to what came next. I overheard Mom call my grandma on the phone and proclaim the good news that I had joined the sisterhood of fertility. I slammed the bathroom door, hoping she’d get a clue as to how humiliating this was for me. It was too subtle a hint.

At dinner, the conversation turned from discussing everyone’s day to Mom proudly discussing the events of mine. Was this walk of shame ever going to end?

“Colette’s a woman now. She’s menstruating,” Mom declared to Dad as she cleared away the dinner plates and put dessert on the table. “We’re going to celebrate with a good old-fashioned cherry pie.”

I would rather celebrate by becoming a worm, crawling into the cherry pie, and shriveling up into a crisp-fried invertebrate than be subjected to this torture. What was she doing to me? This would be my undoing if she continued to celebrate this most unwelcome milestone. Was she trying to scare me away from actually becoming a woman?

“My big girl has started her feminine cycle,” Mom gushed, addressing me. “You’re a modern woman now. You’re privileged to have reached menarche.”

“What’s menarche?” I asked.

“Let me tell you where babies come from,” Mom said. “It’s like the sausage we had for dinner. It starts with a man’s…”

I was sorry I asked. I tuned her out and gulped down the cherry pie. I was mortified at being taught sex education after eating Polish sausage for dinner—and in front of my dad, of all people! Dad squirmed in his chair, as uncomfortable as me. I ran out feeling sick. My stomach hurt. Was it embarrassment or cramps? I wasn’t sure. I did know this was the worst day of my life. Worst. Day. Ever.

“I’m proud of you,” Mom yelled after me as I raced upstairs to my bedroom. I threw myself down on my bed and sobbed. I wouldn’t be able to show my face to my family again. Why would she be proud of me for this? It’s not like I did anything. I didn’t choose this. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

From what my friends told me—and I believed everything they said—menstruating would be a miserable experience for the rest of my life. I would bleed for a week every month until I was an old lady. I did the math on this. If I had a period until I was fifty—the age of an old lady—that meant I’d have this curse for thirty-eight years. That was a total of 456 visits from “Aunt Flo.”

How depressing was that? Maybe I could just adopt a kid if I could trade in this privilege. Fertility, when you’re an adolescent, is not a privilege. Why couldn’t I be given this so-called privilege when I was actually old enough to get pregnant and have kids? There was no point in starting my period when I was just a kid. It seemed as if God had acted prematurely in wanting me to become a woman. 

“I want the men to pause now,” I cried, burying my head in my pillow. I had no idea what the men-pause was, except my mom said that’s when periods would finally stop around fifty. The next four decades would drag by, waiting for men to pause. Starting today, I’d count the days, months, and years until they did. Oh, how I wanted to be the little girl I was yesterday before men ruined everything with men-arche and men-pause! This was a bloody awful start to womanhood.

Julia, Tween

The elementary years flew by. We had nearly reached Queen of the Hill status—eighth grade. This was a big milestone in any kid’s life. The principal, Mr. Patrick, held an assembly every spring to celebrate the incoming eighth graders since we would rule middle school next year. We packed into the gym bleachers and rearranged our seating to sit close to our best friends and avoid the gross, stinky boys. It was noisy and chaotic.

Mr. Patrick yelled into the sound system to get us unruly kids to settle down. As part of the assembly, he handed out pretend paper flames to symbolize passing a torch. We found it corny, but this was a school tradition for whatever reason. Mr. Patrick explained that he also had a gift for each of us.

“I want to teach you how little time you have to live,” Mr. Patrick said.

How little time we have? I’ve got so much time ahead of me I can hardly wrap my juvenile mind around it. Was he confused? Is this what they meant when someone was having a senior moment?

“Life goes by at a breathtaking speed,” Mr. Patrick explained. “And the older you get, the faster it goes. At the mere age of twelve, it’s hard to imagine life going fast when the days seem to drag by. But trust me; you’ll wake up one day at fifty and wonder how you got there.”

My thoughts zoned in and out. I glanced at other students in the gym, and they seemed as bored as me. One girl scribbled pictures on her hand; a boy chewed the eraser off his pencil; and Colette counted ceiling tiles.

“I’m telling you this to help you prepare for your future—to help you make the most of your time, make smarter choices, try new things.” Mr. Patrick’s voice crackled through the microphone. “Your years on this earth are numbered, and we don’t know if you’ll have fifteen years or 115 years. So stop and smell the roses! Enjoy every moment because they’ll soon be memories.”

His speech over, Mr. Patrick instructed us to file out of the bleachers. One by one, like lemmings at the edge of a cliff, we obediently jumped off to receive a long-stemmed rose. This was an exciting change to the usual format of past years. I guess the adults were as bored as us with the paper-torch passing ceremony.

Colette was ahead of me in the rose-receiving line. Following closely behind her, I nervously walked to the middle of the gym floor. I didn’t like being the center of attention. It made my hands sweat.

I stared at Colette in front of me. She always kept calm. We were so different from each other. But we had become soul sisters when we were babies because we were born on the same day, just hours apart. Colette was technically older since she was born first on our birthday. Our appearances were also very different. While Colette was tall and lanky with long flowing blonde hair, I was short and somewhat chubby. And my dark chocolate, almost black, wavy locks could not be tamed no matter how hard I tried. Colette was the graceful swan. I was the ugly duckling.

My turn came to be given the long-stemmed white rose. And then, like soldiers, we walked in single file and returned to the bleachers. I opened the card attached to my rose. It read, Stop and smell the roses.

Mr. Patrick had to quiet us down since we’d gotten rowdy again. “This is to remind you to take in every moment and live life to the fullest,” he rambled. “To stop and smell the roses means to enjoy life every day, even the boring parts.”

I looked around at the assembly. The boys were using the roses as swords on each other. The girls were plucking the petals, reciting, “He loves me, he loves me not.” I don’t think this was what Mr. Patrick meant for the flowers. Somehow, we all missed the point of his lesson.

“These roses are my gift to help you enjoy the simple things in life,” Mr. Patrick said earnestly. “Whenever you see roses, pause and appreciate where you are instead of racing to get to the next best thing. It’s important to recognize it’s times like this you’ll always remember.”

“Grownups are so weird,” Colette whispered to me.

I had no idea what Mr. Patrick was talking about either, but I appreciated his intentions. I was relieved when the bell rang, and we all ran out of the school to board buses. We were even noisier than in the assembly.

As we stepped off the bus in front of our homes, Colette whacked me over the head with her rose.

“Act your age, chica,” I said, poking her in the ribs.

“Not your shoe size,” she countered with a laugh. This was our signature sign-off whenever we parted ways. It was like our own secret handshake. We giggled at our silliness.

I brought my rose home. I was about the only one who hadn’t plucked mine apart. Mama said Mr. Patrick’s gift was a beautiful gesture. She wanted to press it and dry it for a keepsake. Great, now I’d have a dead rose that I didn’t understand the meaning behind.

Colette, 13 (going on 30)

It was my thirteenth birthday, and it was going to be the best. I loved birthdays. I didn’t understand why grownups dreaded their birthdays so much. I wanted a birthday every day of the year. I couldn’t imagine not being excited for this day to come, no matter how old I was. And today, I wasn’t a child anymore. I was a teenager. It was a big deal.

As a passage into my teen years, my mom finally allowed me to get my ears pierced. Until now, she’d said I was too young for earrings. She said they made girls look too mature and that I didn’t need to look older than my age. 

I begged for makeup. I could be prettier with makeup. I always felt plain, especially compared to Julia. She was a natural beauty with thick, wavy dark hair; mine was straight and limp. Funny, she always said I had the better hair. She also had smooth, light-brown skin, and I was fair-skinned with acne. She was athletic and the right height for seventh grade. I was too tall and stood out like a giraffe.

Mom put her foot down with the makeup request, arguing that I was too young and that it was for grownups. She said I could start wearing a little makeup when I got into high school. I couldn’t wait to be older to wear rouge and lipstick like everybody else. I swear I was the only girl on the face of the planet besides Julia, who wasn’t allowed to wear makeup.

Since I was now a teenager, I begged to have my bedroom changed over to teenage décor, too. I wanted to get rid of my little girl’s room and buy new furnishings and bedding to make me feel like the teen I now was.

Mom threw me one last birthday party. Apparently, I was too old now for birthday celebrations but not old enough for makeup. Parents made no sense. She decided that after this year, it would be time to put these parties to rest. Is that why adults didn’t like birthdays—because they didn’t have parties?

Gram and Gramps, my mom’s parents, and all my aunts, uncles, and cousins came. Julia couldn’t come because her family was throwing her party at the same time. Mom baked my favorite chocolate cake, frosted with pink icing and marked with thirteen candles. My family sang “Happy Birthday.” I made the two biggest wishes—that I would stop getting pimples and that my bust would fill out. I wanted to look like a real woman to stop stuffing my training bra with socks. I blew out the candles, confident my wishes would come true—that I’d get clear skin and boobs.

Mom and Dad followed through with my birthday gift list and surprised me with the bedding and accessories I had chosen. But as expected, no makeup. I was so excited about the new room décor. My room was finally going to be redecorated to match my teenage maturity. But that wasn’t the only surprise.

“We’ll redecorate for you, except it’ll be in your new room,” Mom said, avoiding looking at me as she said it.

“My new room?” I asked. “Are we moving?”

“Sort of. Not we. But you. You’re moving into the attic,” she announced. “Gram and Gramps are coming to live with us, and they’re going to stay in your room. We feel you’re old enough now to have the attic for your bedroom. You’ll have your own space on another level of the house.”

Her smile was forced. Was she trying to convince herself that this was a good thing?

“Are you kidding me?” I yelled. “This is so not fair! What if the house starts on fire, and I’m trapped in the attic?”

“Well, dear, that’s exactly why we don’t want Gram and Gramps up there,” Mom teased. “If there were a fire, we’d lose all their knowledge and wisdom. That’s very valuable.”

Everyone else laughed—everyone except me. There was nothing funny in any of this. I screamed, throwing the bedspread across the room.

“Antiques are supposed to be stored in the attic, not young girls,” I shouted, pointing at Gram and Gramps. “They are the antiques. Not me.”

Everyone looked at me as if I was supposed to be happy. This was doomsday. Not only were my grandparents moving in with us and stealing my room, but I would also become like the rest of the storage items in the attic—discarded—taken out only when needed. 

I reacted like any typical thirteen-year-old. I unleashed a full-blown temper tantrum. I threw accent pillows across the room, forcing my family to dodge the shrapnel of my outburst. I stormed out of the room and charged upstairs to my bedroom, my family watching in disbelief at my hissy fit. I didn’t care. I cried so hard I was heaving. I collapsed to the floor and pounded my fists on the carpet. Mom came into my room and yelled at me for my despicable juvenile behavior. My sobs only grew louder. 

She didn’t understand. My life was over. Her very old parents were coming to live with us. I was losing my bedroom and being forced to live hidden away like a prisoner in the attic. How could she not be sympathetic? Instead, she was angry at me for reacting like anybody would under this kind of torture. A bomb just went off in my life. This was the worst birthday ever in the history of the universe! No wonder adults didn’t like birthdays. Birthdays ruined everything.

Mom scolded me, telling me to grow up and stop acting like a child. I found it ironic that I was supposed to act like a grownup, but I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup like a grownup. She grounded me for a week. That was going to feel like a lifetime.

I slammed my door behind her, determined I was never coming out. I’d stay there forever, even if it meant never eating or playing outside with friends again. I was not giving up my room. I wouldn’t do it. I could hold out for days. I felt the anger boiling up inside me. So I trashed my room. I yanked every shirt and dress off the hangers and started building a mountain of pink and purple outfits. I pulled out every piece of clothing stuffed in my dresser drawers and added them to the pile. I was justified in doing this. If they were going to throw me out of my room, I wasn’t going out easily. Gram could put my clothes away in my new room up in the attic. I wasn’t lifting a finger.

I cried myself to sleep on top of the pastel mountain. Later that evening, Dad came into my room. I thought he was going to apologize for the terrible mistake and tell me I could keep my room, and Gram and Gramps would move up into the attic. But my fantasy didn’t last long. Dad hadn’t come to apologize. He had come to straighten me out.

“I see you’ve gotten a jumpstart on moving your clothes,” Dad surmised soberly. “Your grandparents will be here in two weeks, so you can start packing your stuff and hauling it up anytime. I think you’ll like your new room.”

“Doubt it,” I huffed under my breath.

“You want us to treat you like you’re a mature young lady, yet your attitude was anything but,” Dad lectured. “If you want respect, then you need to earn it. You will help your grandparents settle in because of your behavior. And you’ll do it graciously. Do you understand?”

“Great!” I snapped, rolling my eyes in disgust. I slumped on the pile of clothes with my arms crossed and lips pursed, waiting for him to finish. Instead, he turned and walked out. I wanted to scream once again. But I wouldn’t be doing myself any favors. How about Gram and Gramps show me respect and not force me out of the bedroom I’ve had for the last thirteen years? They were squeezing me out like they squeezed their denture paste from a tube.

For the next week, I worked on setting up my attic prison. I put every single item away in my new closet by myself. Then when Gram and Gramps moved in, I had to hang up all their clothes, too. They smelled like musty mothballs. It was punishment for trashing my room. Where was the justice? I was never going to adjust to this new arrangement. Never, ever, ever.

My grandparents’ presence was a rude awakening. Maybe Mom and Dad didn’t care, but I was annoyed by all the visual reminders of having old fogeys take over our home. The toothbrush cup I used for my retainer was also used for their fake teeth in the bathroom. Next to my feminine pads was a box of adult leak-guard pads. Plus, my one bottle of gummy vitamins was lost in the medicine cabinet among ten medication bottles. This juxtaposition was an assault on my youth. And my ego.

Julia, 15

I was a second-generation American born to Mexican parents. While my parents were 100 percent Mexican, they were selective in what they passed down to me from their Hispanic heritage. They didn’t purposely teach me Spanish because they wanted me to assimilate into American culture. But they spoke it often, so I learned it naturally. Yet Mama still fully expected me to carry on certain Hispanic traditions like a quinceañera. Mama had been planning my quinceañera—my fifteenth birthday party to celebrate my rite of passage from childhood into adulthood. It was a big deal, and it took Mama a year to plan it. Every generation of women in her family celebrated this milestone, and she expected I would, too—even as she tried to morph me into a typical American girl.

Our family from Mexico was traveling up for this significant birthday. Mama had invited nearly one hundred people for the celebration, which would be held at our home. And to Papa’s chagrin, the guest list kept growing. It was important they didn’t miss my day as I transitioned from being a girl to a woman. 

For months Mama and I had carefully shopped for the perfect ball gown. This was as big of a deal as shopping for a wedding dress. It was a process not to be rushed. I tried on dress after dress. After a seemingly endless process, I fell in love with a light pink satin gown with layers of ruffles. The sleeves were puffed, and the bodice was stitched with pearls and crystals. I felt like a princess wearing it. Mama approved. Finally. She also picked out a crystal tiara as a gift for me, and we bought two pairs of shoes for the ceremony: a pair of white ballet flats and a pair of white heels.

On the day of my quinceañera, I got to shave my legs and tweeze my eyebrows. These were big things in a girl's life. Mama took me to the beauty salon to get my hair set. It was pulled up high on my head, with big ringlets of dark-brown curls cascading around the tiara. Mama also had the beautician apply makeup. It was my first time wearing makeup—another significant moment to mark the day. The beautician spun me around in the salon chair, and I gasped at how grownup I looked with makeup.

My day would be like a fairytale, perfect in every way. As part of her Hispanic culture, Mama was superstitious, and she warned me not to jinx the day by proclaiming it to be perfect beforehand. And then I was jinxed. I didn’t know if it was just the stuff of life—I hadn’t learned enough about life yet—or if superstition was coming to get me because I had said it would be perfect. 

First, I woke up with a giant pimple on my forehead. It was the size of a bowling ball. Then Colette called with the worst news in the history of the world. She had come down with chickenpox. The chickenpox, today of all days! She was too sick to come to my quinceañera.

“But you have to come!” I demanded. “You can’t miss this milestone birthday we share.”

“I want to come,” she cried. “But I can’t make it. I’ve got blisters covering my entire body. And I’ve got a fever and a sore throat.”

This was devastating.

“But you’re a dama in my court. You’re like a bridesmaid. How could you not be there? This is the most important day in my entire life!” I broke down sobbing, making a mess of the freshly applied makeup.

“I know. It’s the saddest thing in the world to miss,” Colette said, sniffling. “But you won’t even notice I’m not there. It’s going to be an amazing day for you. You get a fiesta. Remember, my mom celebrated my passage into womanhood by buying me tampons. Your mom bought you a tiara.” 

That made us both laugh.

“I’m so sorry I can’t be there for you or to see you in your fancy dress,” she said.

“Well, I’m sad you’ll miss my party, but I won’t let you ruin it by spreading chickenpox,” I said. “I promise to show you all the pictures the photographer takes.” 

I hung up. I looked in the mirror to see dark mascara smudged under my eyes. I carefully wiped away the evidence of disappointment, a river of black tears sliding down my cheeks. I forced myself to be happy. Abuela, my grandma, always said happiness was a choice. I had to choose this now despite not spending my special rite of passage with my best friend.

The festivities began with a Catholic mass at church. I felt the butterflies flutter in my stomach as I watched my familiafile into the pews. Beads of sweat trickled beneath the layers of pink satin. I was so nervous. I was afraid my sweaty armpits would ruin my beautiful dress. I still didn’t like to be the center of attention. I tried to look past the staring faces and focus only on Abuelo and Abuela. They beamed at me with pride, which pushed the butterflies out.

The event officially began with the crowning ceremony. Mama placed the tiara squarely on my head and announced I would always be God’s princess. It felt rather dramatic with such pomp and circumstance. Her eyes filled with tears as she adjusted the tiara into place with countless bobby pins that stabbed into my head. She had fretted all morning that it would fall off, so she made sure to secure it tightly. She did!

During the ceremony, I was presented with even more gifts—including a rosary, a book of prayers, and countless keepsakes to commemorate the day. After mass, we returned to our house, where the reception was held. All the guests would indulge in scrumptious Mexican fare and dance to the music of a mariachi band.

A childhood boy friend (not boyfriend, silly) escorted me into the party as part of the grand entrance. He was a pimple-faced, clumsy kid. And dirt always jumped up onto him. But today, he was dressed in a dapper tuxedo. Everyone cheered at my arrival, and Papa greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. He smiled a big toothy grin. I felt so special watching Papa look upon me with endearment. He took me by the hand and walked me into the living room, where everyone waited in anticipation for the brindis—or toast. Papa handed each guest a fancy decorated goblet filled with champagne to make his speech.

“Welcome, everyone, to this spectacular day,” he began the brindis, scanning the group of guests. “Juliana’s fifteenth birthday celebration with all of you is a beautiful event—her passage from a little girl to a young lady. I couldn’t be prouder of her, and I’m so grateful you could all be here to share this moment. 

“Fifteen years ago, I held this delightful bundle of joy in my arms, and today she’s already grown into a lovely woman. How did she grow up so quickly?” Here he turned his attention to me. “My brindis today is that you use your life to do good, to live well and mature into a beautiful woman. You have your whole life ahead of you, and I pray it’s blessed with happiness and love. I love you, Julia.” 

Papa lifted his champagne glass into the air to salute me and then poured the champagne into his mouth. Everyone followed his lead, drinking the champagne. They let me have a sip, too. The bubbles tickled my nose.

As ballroom music filled the air, Papa clasped my hand gently in his and whirled me around the living room. This would be our first dance together for the family to see. We took dance lessons for a month to learn the waltz. Even this was a big deal. I was officially given permission now to dance in public as part of the rite of growing into a woman. It was so Cinderella-esque.

When the music quieted, Papa walked me over to a chair. It was now time for the ceremony of the shoes. As I sat, the plume of pink ruffles ballooned around me like a cloud of cotton candy.

As is custom after the first waltz, Papa knelt before me for the “Changing of the Shoes”—another sign of my maturity into womanhood. He marked this tradition by replacing the girlish white ballet slippers I wore at the start of the day with the pair of womanly white high heels. He carefully removed my right slipper and then my left. He held up the high heels for all to see and then gently placed one on my right foot and the other on my left. Papa’s eyes flooded with tears, and everyone cheered. I was officially a woman now. This was the last step of the quinceañera that made my transition complete. The ceremony was a beautiful symbol of my transformation. I was now officially an active adult in society. The shoes proved it. 

Colette, 17

Though it had already been four years, it seemed like Gram and Gramps had just moved into our house yesterday. As I got used to them taking up space in our house, I felt sorry for them. They were nearly blind and wore bifocals. I think they were deaf, too, since I had to yell to get them to hear me. They ate weird food like prunes and fruit cake. I’d notice them do gross things, too. Gram would take her dentures out of her mouth and leave them on the dinner table. And Gramps would put powdery fiber stuff in his orange juice at breakfast and then pass gas the rest of the day.

Gramps began to sleep most of the time and didn’t go anywhere. When I asked Mom about this, she said not to concern myself with it. It was grownup business. They never let me in on grownup business. Even though I was in high school, they still treated me like a child. I hated it. That left me having to eavesdrop and put the pieces of the story together myself.

Mom and Gram vaguely shared about Gramps’ illness. They said they couldn’t take care of him. He was too sick. Gram cried a lot, saying it was too tiring and too much work. They agreed it was time to put Gramps in a nursing home. I overheard Gram say she felt like she abandoned him, but Mom said it was for the best. I wondered who it was best if Gram didn’t want him to go and Gramps didn’t want to go, either. I wasn’t sure why they made him move. It seemed to me he was being held hostage by a nursing home. I would convince them to bring him home quickly. Despite my rebellion when he and Gram first moved in, Gramps and I had grown close over the past few years. Now that I had adjusted to them living with us, I wasn’t ready for Gramps to leave.

Mom wanted me to visit Gramps as soon as he got settled in. I was nervous. Visiting an old folks’ home meant watching people do weird things like what Gram and Gramps did. From what I overheard while eavesdropping, the nursing home didn’t sound very good. They described it as a hospital with a bunch of old, sick people. I didn’t want to see old, sick people, but I did want to see Gramps. 

When we arrived at the nursing home, I read the sign on the entrance: Heritage Manor. The place looked nice enough on the outside. It was a three-story brick building with lots of flower boxes that hung beneath the windows. The landscaping was well-kept, and the grass was lush and green. There was a big turnaround drive under a covered roof to drop people off. Mom parked in the lot, and we walked toward the main doors.

I noticed the first old person. She was sitting in a wheelchair outside the entrance. It made me a little jittery seeing her. I had never seen a lot of old, sick people in one place, so I didn’t know if they would all be passing gas like Gramps. Mom had given me a lecture in the car ahead of time to be polite and not stare. I decided the best way to handle it would be to act like they were invisible.

We walked inside the first set of doors. There were so many old people. Most of them were staring at us. But as Mom reminded me, I couldn’t stare back. Some had smiles on their faces. Others blankly gazed forward, not looking at anything in particular. They were all withered and wrinkled and sad. 

We walked to the second set of doors, and Mom rang the buzzer. As we made our way in, a few nurses stood guard. Probably making sure the geezers didn’t run away from this place. Not that they could run, but they might try if they wanted to escape badly enough. I hoped I wouldn’t be like them when I got old—caged in a nursing home. I made a pact with myself to stay young and never end up in a nursing home like Gramps.

“May I help you?” a voice echoed through the intercom.

“We’re here to see my dad,” Mom said.

The door clicked to allow us in. There were even more decrepit people lingering in the lobby. One old woman sat in a wheelchair, shuffling her feet to move around. But she only went in circles. An old man slowly pushed a walker, taking one feeble step at a time. A few more shuffled down the hall, gripping the railings for support. Others slept in the lobby chairs.

I instantly loathed this place. The people were sick, and the place smelled like decay. Mom and I finally reached the elevator, and she pushed the up arrow. I prayed the elevator doors would open quickly so I could get away from all these people staring at me.

“It’s okay, honey. These people aren’t going to hurt you,” Mom assured me, reaching out to stroke my cheek. “You look frightened, and you don’t need to be.”

I didn’t realize fear was showing. I didn’t know what I was afraid of. I knew they couldn’t hurt me when they could barely even stand up. It was just the scariness of seeing many people so frail and ill. Death lingered here. Were all these people on their way out to kick up dirt? It creeped me out thinking about them becoming worm food. I just wanted to see Gramps, bring him home, and get out as fast as possible.

The elevator doors opened. A nurse stepped out backward, pulling a man in a wheelchair. Another man followed, hobbling with a cane. The old folks were multiplying and coming out of the woodwork. Mom pushed the button for the third floor, and the elevator closed.

“Mom, when can we bring Gramps home?” I asked in concern. “I don’t think this is the best place for him.”

“He won’t be leaving, dear,” Mom replied, tears welling up in her eyes. “Gramps is really sick and will live here until he dies.”

“He’s going to die here?” I asked in disbelief. “When?”

“The doctors aren’t giving him much time, but nobody knows for sure,” Mom explained. “He’ll be more comfortable here than at home because Gram can’t take care of him, and neither can we. He needs a lot of help. So, the doctors will take good care of him.”

A lump swelled in my throat, and tears burned my eyes. Gramps was dying. Nobody told me that. I wasn’t ready for Gramps to die. He wasn’t like the rest of the people here. I wanted to scream, throw myself on the elevator floor, and sob. I fought back my tears, which made my throat ache and my forehead throb. I tried to be brave and not a sissy.

The elevator doors opened on the third floor. We walked down a long corridor lined with rooms. Most doors were open, and when I looked into the rooms, I saw lots of people sleeping in hospital beds. Some rooms had two people in them, with a curtain separating the beds. Other people had a room to themselves. They were lucky.

We got to Gramps’ room. He was sharing it with someone else. But he got the bed near the window, at least.

“Dad, look who’s here to see you,” Mom said to Gramps. “Colette is here today. She came by to give you hugs and kisses.” 

Gramps was resting with his eyes closed. He slowly opened them to focus on us.

“Come sit next to me, apple dumpling,” Gramps said. He had many pet names for me, usually related to fruits like cherry blossom or peach cobbler. He patted the blanket spread over him to get me to sit by his side. He looked visibly frail, like all the people here. I didn’t remember him looking like this at home. How did he get so sickly so fast?

Mom pulled up a chair next to the bed and held his hand. She asked him how he felt and if he was in any pain. I tuned out their words and zoned in on his appearance. For the first time, I saw him as he really was. Dying. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were gaunt. He was pale. And very thin. His face was bony. His skin was wrinkled and saggy and covered in brown spots. His hair was thin and matted down. I saw him not as Gramps but as a dying old man. It scared me. I wanted to run out of the room. But that would be worse. Then I’d have to find my way out of the building with all the other dying people surrounding me.

I felt panic rise in my body. I couldn’t breathe. I quickly jumped up and headed back toward the elevator, crying as I ran. Mom hurried behind to catch up with me. She held me in her arms.

“I don’t want Gramps to die,” I sobbed into her chest.

“I know, dear, but he’s very ill,” Mom shushed me, stroking my hair. “We need to prepare ourselves. We don’t want him to suffer. Doctors are taking good care of him to make sure he dies comfortably. Let’s say goodbye to Gramps for today, and we’ll come back another time.”

We returned to Gramps’ room. I bent down to him and hugged his frail body under the hospital blankets. When I kissed Gramps’ cheek, I took in his familiar scent. He wore cologne every day of his life, and even today, as he lay dying, he still seemed to be accessorized with it. I buried my face in his shoulder. I stayed there for a long time until Mom finally pulled me away. 

“I love you, my lemon meringue,” Gramps whispered with difficulty into my ear. He lifted his frail hand to my cheek, wiping our tears that blended into a salty sea of sadness.

As we left his room, I glanced back. Gramps was smiling at me. I felt my chest suffocate, and I tried to catch my breath. I sobbed all the way home.

After that day, I didn’t want to return to the nursing home. It scared me. And watching Gramps wither away made me too sad. I wanted to remember how he used to be, not how he was now—decaying in a hospital bed. As it turned out, that would be the last time I saw him. He died one week later. Gram, Mom, and Dad were at his bedside when he took his last breath.

While I tried to forget what Gramps looked like in the nursing home, I couldn’t. The look of impending death burned in my mind. It was then that I vowed I would never end up in an old folks’ home. I was afraid of what I saw and terrified of aging and dying. I would make my future husband and kids promise me they would never put me into a nursing home. I didn’t want to get old and frail like those people. I wouldn’t let it happen to me. I didn’t want this to be the ending of my story. That day, I declared war on aging. I would go to my grave fighting it.