The (Un)Secret Childhood Dialogue Chronicles -Tap Shoes.

I remember once when we were only about 5 years old, and minutes away from our debut on stage in our first (and last) dance recital; I was so nervous I couldn’t see straight, but S could’ve cared less about the people or the lights or the crowds of strange little girls to compare ourselves with.I recall so vividly too, as we sat backstage finishing the touches on our stupid little outfits (which were, by the way, exceptionally glitzy and covered in sequins and glitter, complete with a huge feather we each had to pin in our hair), S was fidgety as usual and muttering to herself.

“What? I can’t hear you…” I shouted to her ear as I pulled the hairbrush through her dark, wild hair before attempting for the final time to get the obnoxiously huge feather pinned in.

“I just still don’t know how good of an idea this whole “dance recital” thing is, you know?”

S had both hands up to make the bunny ears around the words dance and recital. The feather floated from my hands once again and glided in rocking motion to the dusty floor. We both sighed; I looked her over and saw that she was messing with her tap shoes, struggling to get them and tie the puffy ribbon laces.

“I know you hate this…but we’re almost up, S…get your shoes on!” I leaned down to help her with shoes as I hollered, “We’ve been over this – I know I owe you big time for coming to dance class with me…”

“-…and especially for making me dress like this!…my feet are killing me and we haven’t even been on stage yet!”

S’ helium voice rose to a staccato above the music and clapping of the audience. She pulled and heaved at her little feet in vain to finish getting her shoes on as I searched desperately for my left shoe. It only took me a second to see that S had it and was trying like Hell to make it fit on her right foot.

“Well, no wonder your feet hurt, that’s my shoe…”

Needless to include, our debut was hideous and we dropped out of dance class immediately following the police inquiry.

The Unsecret (Childhood) Dialogue of S and J (3).

“I had no idea the child was epileptic…”

Ms. Melody’s hands trembled in her lap as she answered the string of questions put forth by Mr. Brown, the principal. As J sat across the small space in the waiting niche from the two adults, she couldn’t help but to sense a bit of irony circling overhead, even at age 5. She casually let her eyes wander over to the nurse’s station, where her best friend in the world lay “unconscious” after all of the commotion.

“Pssssst. Psssst.”

S skillfully turned her head slightly to the right and peeled open one eye with careful attention, winked the eye quickly at her friend to reassure her that she was, after all, just fine, and then rolled and began to groan loudly.

“She’s waking up!”

cried J as she popped up from her chair and rushed over to S’ side, kneeling down closely to make sure that they would have the few seconds of private dialogue they needed to get out of the day’s cluster-fuck, unscathed.

“Here, here S – quick! Take this, hurry, give me your hand!”

Without a second’s hesitation, S shot her right hand out secretly, keeping it hidden between their tiny forms as she did. J slapped a key into her S’ palm, being careful to curl S’ small fingers up around the rough edges until S’ hand was closed tightly around it. The two savored a short moment of “the know” (the childhood title they used for their’ extraordinary ability to communicate almost telepathically), in which they shared a mental image of the overall escape plan.

“Hit the lights on your way out, would ya?”

S gave J’s request a quick nod of agreement as she began to sit herself up and ready for her mark.

And with that, the room became an explosion of activity all at once: papers flying everywhere, voices hollering, doors opening and slamming closed behind small, blurry blobs of pure motion. The fire alarm began to sound then, just as S made her way safely through the side exit and brushed her hand downward across the light switch. The building went dark; the fire-bell klaxon blaring with a Doppler affect overhead, the girls met up outside the office and slipped easily out through the rotten and retired drainage pipe that had eroded away enough to leave a child-sized passage. J being well-aware of S’ tendency to escalate situations without necessarily meaning to, she forced S to carry on ahead while she waited at the mouth of the passage exit to be certain that nobody had followed them through somehow.

It was another half hour before J made it to her house, where S had already made apple and peanut butter snacks for them.

“Your Dad says I can keep your house-key and he will just make you a new one…”

S said matter-of-factly as she crunched a piece of green apple.

              “He’s home?”

J suddenly sat up and wiped her face with her filthy hand, shocked and beginning to worry.

              “Does he know? You told him!?”

              S rolled her eyes, an expression that J endeared deeply in her best friend.

              “Um…I had to tell him, he drove past me at the crosswalk and pulled over to pick me up…I didn’t want him to take me back to school because he didn’t know better!!!…sorry, he’s not mad…”

J burned S with a look of sheer dubiousness.

              “He said we shoulda called him as soon as Ms. Melody gave me a seizure again, so that we coulda avoided all that time in the principal’s office…he thinks we spend too much time in there, anyway…”

The two girls crunched loudly on the snacks and caught their breath, collectively.

 

 

The Un-Secret (Childhood) Dialogue of S and J.

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The paper airplane landed gracefully into a patch of bare skin just above the collarbone of the whiny redhead named Tasha, who sat one desk to the left of J, who sat dead center – in the very back row of the classroom; she jumped and started to cry immediately, rubbing her skin and looking around like a hunted animal. J stifled a laugh best she could and shot a look at S, sitting in the far right hand desk about a meter away from the teacher’s desk. S was turned completely around in her seat, staring at J with those searing green eyes, intensely willing something.

Typically, the two young trouble-makers could communicate almost totally through expression and mannerisms, but J was at a loss as to what S was trying to tell her this time. The teacher, Ms. Melody (whose name only cruelly misled any student going into her kindergarten class), spun on her cane in front of the chalkboard, accidentally flinging the stick of chalk that she had been using across the room and hitting the aid in the rear who silently graded papers. The aid wore his earphones and paid little attention to the classroom happenings while he was there, so he was caught completely off guard by the sudden smack of a stick of chalk against his brow, and nearly started enough to flip his chair over backwards – papers flying up over his head and landing like snowflakes on his lap and around his surprised form as they settled. The class exploded in laughter then, a cacophony of high-pitched voices, snickering in glee at the impromptu spectacle; Ms. Melody washed over with that reddened look of shocked outrage that was so familiar o the children, S and J especially, and barked an order that was snuffed out by the collective noise.

 

Pick up the airplane!!!

The thought finally struck J as if a mallet had from behind, and she scrambled to grab the small folded note that S had (poorly) thrown only nano-seconds before the aid was shot by the teacher with a piece of rogue chalk.

“Nice pitch…”

J mumbled to herself as she swiped up the note with an extended lean over her desk, almost flipping headfirst onto the carpet, herself, in the process.

In a single motion that both S and J had come to interpret as Doom, Ms. Melody snapped her left handed fingers and pointed at S in the front of the classroom, all while locking eyes with J in the very back at the same time, and for a very long and drawn out moment.

“Give me the note right now, J.”

the teacher said calmly.

“May I read it first?”

asked J, sincerely.

The click of Ms. Melody’s tongue gave J her answer, and she stood, looked down at the piece of paper in her hand, looked over to S (who sat with a condemned look of guilt on her puckered face), and nonchalantly put the paper in her mouth, chewing it briefly before swallowing. The class exploded again with unruly hysterics that only 5 year old children can produce; and J noticed the aid nearby drop his jaw open and let it hang. S began to clap loudly from the front row, and soon enough the rest of the class joined in the applause. Spittle flew from Ms. Melody’s mouth as she seemed to combust verbally in an outburst of all things Teacher; she was pissed.

gurls

We Went to Unsecret, Different Schools Together.

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NOTE: Even at a post-wedding-ceremony party, S is snapped crying while J just wants to get down and cut a rug

Beginning as far back into life as either of us can remember, we have somehow genuinely been: thick as thieves. At one time, she had longer hair and seemed much taller than me, even donned dress flats to make her Mama happy once in a while…although it was I that sucked my thumb until I was five, she cried often and was sensitive – surprise, surprise. Her skin thickened later on in life, but during childhood, she was kind of a sissy.

Bruce Springsteen – CHECK.

Handcuffed together inside of a high security paddy wagon – CHECK.

1980’s eye crystal blue eye shadow and feather bangs – CHECK.

Teddy Ruxpin (and cassette tapes) – CHECK.

Piercings in unspeakable places – CHECK.

Ever-Revolving door of chaotic Life-Phases ranging in severity – CHECK.

Direct Tissue/Organ Donation – CHECK. CHECK.

Secret Matching Tattoos – CHECK.

Disturbing and vague shared recollections involving a drunken exotic bird and many, many bottles of Tequila – CHECK.

(CIRCA 19–)
Here, you can easily see the perfect demonstration of our days together in childhood.
(We are at either end: I am the blonde piglet and she is the snickering shithead)
Directly after this was snapped, I was nearly beaten to death by my playmates (S included) for “eating on the clock”.

(CIRCA 19–)    S had a traumatic jellyfish experience at the beach early in life, rendering her perpetually in malcontent on any shoreline, anywhere. This photo was taken only a matter of hours prior to her attack, and clearly captured my evil fatmouth full of lies and false assurances to her of her safety.

Our days as friends had no beginning, and will never end.

We've been solid since back when your "bikini" left tan lines that made no sense at all.

We’ve been solid since back when your “bikini” left tan lines that made no sense at all.

(CIRCA 19–) One time, the two of us agreed that we’d made a trivial mistake…soon afterward however – we realized we’d been wrong.

When we became bored with finger painting in preschool, we whisked ourselves away to religiously shrouded monasteries of truth and light, barely visible off the Eastern coast of…some place that was very far away;

we learned to write in Latin… to shoot like the archers from times long dead to history books and chainmaille legends…we gladly taught them to eat with their hands like savages – a few steps back towards their pastel colored roots.

We always eventually overstayed our welcome, wherever we went – and were either escorted beyond the perimeter or politely asked to be on our way.

Drunken Sailorettes – CHECK.

Military AirSupport Dropouts – CHECK.

Shitty Low-Budget Horror Movie Extras – CHECK.

I could go on, but need to save something for future volumes of the Unsecret Chrons…

More of the fictitious story of “us” to come…maybe.

(CIRCA 19–) NOTE: We are seated on the far left end of bench (I am holding a net wtf?) Immediately after this one was snapped, we made history by leaping up from the bench and affecting a medieval style catapult, launching the three remaining girls as well as the creepy, freeze-dried cat well over the internationally recorded current best of 59.05 m into the air.