You’re A Big Girl Now

Gazing down at my sparkly net squishball, I knew I was a star. As the landscape blurred outside my car window, I remained entranced by the little galaxy nestled in my cupped hands. It couldn’t have cost more than two dollars, yet its value to me was immeasurable. 

“Good job on the announcements today, Kins,” my mom beamed at me in the rearview mirror. “Such a grown up now!” I grinned back, a self-conscious blush sweeping across my cheeks. 

I had carefully selected my squishball from the Elementary Office’s treasure chest, as it sparkled among the sea of Pop-Its and figurines. I had to choose a worthy reward for reading the weekly announcements over the PA system. A fifth grader, I was a big fish in the Elementary school; being the oldest came with its special responsibilities. As soon as I’d clicked that microphone off, a feeling of pride had swelled against my ribs, a bubbly elation that only grew the whole trip home. 

I had earned this. I was special. My squishball, bubbling bright hues of pink, purple, and blue was tangible proof that I was all grown up. 

It is a strange feeling, to have your heart burst in rubber and glitter goo.

The low drone of adult voices enveloped me at the dinner table. My feet barely brushed the floor as they dangled from the dining room chair, yet I remained perched at the table with our guests. I was a big girl now, and big girls sat with the adults at the table while the kids went to play.

“Ava, how’s school? You’re getting so old!” exclaimed one of my parents’ colleagues, a chunky necklace nestled against her collar. “What are you learning about in class?” I cleared my throat, looking Big Necklace Lady in the eye, ready to launch into my practiced explanation of the cultural differences of pre- and post-colonial Singapore. I had rehearsed answers to questions such as these so I could make the best possible impression. I wanted my parents’ guests to be astounded by my maturity, my sophistication making me shine brighter than the glitter in my squishball. As I tilted my head—giving a professionally inquisitive look—I caught a glimpse of my younger brother Ezra.

He had ducked out of the boring conversations about  “inflation” and “mid-term elections,” words foreign to my ears, but I had kept nodding along in pantomime wisdom. Ezra had done his job. He had answered the basic questions like “How old are you now?” and “Oh! You like dinosaurs! Which is your favorite?”, giving one-word answers and flashing his cheeky smile that the adults just ate up. I had rolled my eyes (internally of course) as he snuck off, content with his short performance. I would never leave the conversation, not when there was so much big person business to attend to!

Three years my junior, he now lay sprawled on the living room floor, entranced by his shiny new Nintendo, my squishball thrown haphazardly on the floor beside him. I grimaced. Ezra had begged me to let him play with it, my hesitation swayed only by my parents’ insistence that he would take care of it. If I focused, I could hear the little pings of Mario Kart emanating from under his fingertips. For a moment, the idea of racing down Rainbow Road pulled me in, my body turning instinctively towards the television. 

No. Shaking myself from the momentary daze, I rooted my body to the chair. I breathed in, ready to finally answer Big Necklace Lady’s question. I let my practiced lines pour from my mouth, watching in satisfaction as my big words elicited oohs and mmm I sees from my audience. It was my turn to play my part.

I was halfway through explaining the Raffles Town Plan of 1822 when I heard it. 

Pop.

It is a strange feeling, to have your heart burst in rubber and glitter goo. 

I felt myself crumple as latex skin ripped in two. I slumped in my chair as the glittery insides dripped onto the white floor. Everything I had worked for, my big girl bubble, burst in my little brother’s fists, leaving behind only unremarkable smears of pink and blue. 

The once-jovial sounds of conversation faded in my ears. My brother's guilty face blurred as my eyes filled with tears. I pushed back from the table, face taut. The chair scraped its legs across the marble floor, the screech breaking the tense silence that had settled over the room. I snatched my mutilated squeezeball from my brother’s murderous fingers, hands shaking. 

I felt myself walk stiffly to the bathroom. Felt the door slam behind me. Felt myself melt against the cold tile. I knew it was silly to be this upset. A big girl wouldn’t shed a tear over a two dollar toy. A big girl would be gracious and understanding, laughing off her younger brother’s silly mistake. 

I knew all of this deep down, but as my tears mingled with the glitter guts of my pride, I didn’t care. 

The soft sounds of my parent’s knocking at the bathroom door and their gentle assurances that my brother was sorry made my skin prickle. Where was his punishment? Where was my justice? They begged me to come out, begged me to talk it over with him. 

No, I fumed. No no no. This isn't fair. 

I wanted to scream. I wanted to yell and kick and cry, just like he would if he was in my place.

I looked down at the exploded skin of my precious little galaxy hanging limply in my hands. I didn’t yell. I didn’t kick. I stopped crying. 

I hoisted myself up off the floor and peered into my reflection, staring back at the blotchy, snotty faced girl. Tap water dripped down my chin as I hid the evidence of my meltdown, tracing cold rivulets down my tear stained cheeks. Practicing my smile in the mirror, I told myself that this was fine. It was time to go back, to play my part. Shake it off, you’re a big girl now.

Metal clanged as my squishball hit the bottom of the trashcan. 

As I waltzed out of the bathroom, my face the picture of bright-eyed composure, I heard those little pings again. I tried to ignore the sounds of my brother, already back to racing down Rainbow Road. I sat myself back on the dining room chair. I forced the corners of my mouth upwards.

“Where was I?”