In one shot. Ha-ha.

Easy as brushing your teeth.

(Okay, sometimes Mom still helps with my shots if I’m doing the shot in a place I can’t reach, like my shoulder or my gluteus maximus, which is a noun meaning: butt.)

My big, tough, blowtorch wielding brother-in-law, Thomas, can work with flames and dangerous buzzing tools inches from his face no problem, but needles? Total heebie-jeebies. It still makes me laugh when I think about his face the first time he saw me do my shots.

The thing is, though, shots don’t make me feel brave because they’re not even scary. It’s only medicine. A little pinch. Done.

For other people, maybe shots are scary. Thomas once told me if he’s around needles it’s hard for him to be brave. But then, he doesn’t need to be brave about talking to new people and making friends. Even at a really hard job, the annoying people he works with end up his friends, and grumpy old bosses turn out to like him a lot. I remember once when he visited and we went out as a family he talked to the waiter at our table and the ticket taker at the movie theater like they’d known each other all their lives. Like they’re best friends. I don’t know how he does that.

Nonny says when he asked her out for the first time, he wasn’t shy or awkward at all. If a boy ever asked me on a date (when I’m forty-two, like Dad says) I would definitely need to be brave. Even lab partners give me butterflies.

It’s not that I’m shy. I’m really not. I get A’s on all my class presentations, and I think doing high school drama will be really fun. Talking to people isn’t the hard part. It’s that I can never tell what people think is the wrong thing to say until after I’ve said it.

Like asking Ms. Trepky about homework that isn’t due for more than six months.

Or telling a teacher about my bestie, the library.

Me trying to figure out who to talk to at a birthday party?

I’d rather stick a needle in my butt.

Growth Hormone and Marmalade

We stayed up too late. We basically must stay up late when Nonny’s home.

Mom used to make marmalade toast when we were sick, and it’s especially great on her fresh, homemade bread. Mom, Nonny, and I sat at the table in the kitchen eating too much toast.

Mom took a sip of her tea. Nonny took a sip. Nonny rubbed the table with the sleeve of her sweater, wiping up the wet ring from her mug. Maybe watching people drink herbal tea sounds boring but I could have stayed up watching them forever.

“You’ve got school in the morning, sweetie,” Mom said.

“And I’ll drive you,” Nonny said.

“Deal!” I said.

Mom finished the last bite of her toast. “I know you want to stay up but it’s time to start getting ready for bed.”