I am one of the girls. My sister is the other. Girlhood is something you do alone. We do it alone, together. There were never any adults. Not really.

 

My sister is paddling. She’s younger but her arms are stronger, from all the whisking she does. Did. Before.

There is Before, and there is Now. Now is Boat. Our boat is on a lake so there aren’t waves, but there are ripples. A bird will splash into the water to snatch a fish, or drown itself.

We are birds, my sister and I. We are two, yellow birds, escaped from our cages. We like to chirp instead of speak. Three chirps means I see land. Neither of us has chirped three times.

I chirp to my sister seven times. This means Stop Paddling It’s Time To Relax and Talk About Life and Growing Up. We are only one year apart. Barely a year.

Are you hungry? I ask her.

Yes, she says. Are you?

Yes.

We are always hungry. We did not bring food. That is why you need adults. Adults have food. They also have tools, and can stitch you up if you crack yourself open.

The boat is cracked open. That is why I chirped seven times. It’s going to sink, and paddling is wasted effort.

Do you see, I ask my sister, the hole in the boat? I considered not telling her, because I am the older sister, and that means I am almost her mother. But I tell her because girlhood is about unity.

What hole? she says, as water trickles into the boat.

My sister is good at denial. She is so good at denial that she didn’t even flinch when Mother and Father fell off the boat. I pushed them, and that is how they fell. They do not know how to swim, and neither do we.

The water is rising, I say, as the water rises. Cold lake water, suckling our toes.

I don’t feel anything, she says. She resumes paddling.

No, I say. Neither do I.

This must be what it means, she says, to grow up.

Yes, I say, as water rises to our waists. Growing up is feeling nothing.

I see land, she says, pointing. But she doesn’t. There is no land. The earth is all water.