“Some Habits are Hard to Break”

Her face turned red and she shrunk down at her desk in U.S. History II. The teacher had just called her name out and asked her how she could possibly still be biting her nails, a habit which eight year olds would have already given up. The girl pulled her brown hair in front of her face and mumbled a response about being sorry and nervous about something. It was the third day of junior year and she had thought she would be able to give up the habit, a gross one that her friends were forever making fun of her for. They called her the machine gun. They said was an affectionate nickname but everyone around could tell that it was embarrassing. After all, no one would want to be called that themselves. It was a vicious cycle: the more people noticed she chewed her nails down the more embarrassed she got and the worse she would bite and bite.

Once she got home she immediately googled how to stop biting your nails. The first site that came up was a health site and it’s first suggestion said to wear fake nails. She looked down at the ten ragged stumps she had at the tip of each finger. She imagined them with long beautiful, brightly colored nails and immediately felt a twinge of longing. She was determined.

After returning home from a quick trip to CVS, she had brightened up considerably. There had been rows and rows of beautifully colored nails, all different lengths, colors and patterns. After looking through each different set, she had finally decided on pale pink, average length nails with one single sparkle on the right ring finger. She tediously matched each real nail up to the perfect sized fake and then opened the glue and got down to business.

She couldn’t believe how beautiful her hands look. Such a simple solution, she couldn’t believe she’d never tried it before! Imagining that her real nails could look like that made her smile--she would keep these on for a week or two and then would take them off and watch her nails grow so beautifully. All of her girl friends would apologize for spreading around such a heinous nickname and would ask her secrets, ask her how she had turned around such a terrible habit into beautiful tips at the ends of her fingers. As she looked down and smiled, she then looked up at herself right in the eye. She dug through the bathroom drawer and then, for the first time in years, she reached up and pulled her hair back away from her face.

Who's in Danger?

As I press end on my cell phone, I sigh and look around for a bra to put on. It’s the beginning of August, and since the end of summer is approaching it’s a no brainer that Mary and Deanna decided to do something stupid to kill the time. I’m sure it’s the same as always, some dumb prank that they build up in their heads, and by the time I get there to “fix” the problem, it’s already forgotten.

I finally find a hot pink bra in the middle of the pile of clothes I have on my floor. For some reason I thought it was a good idea to leave all my clothes from school on the floor, so they didn’t mix with the clothes I had in my closet that I never wore. As a result, all summer I’d lost any sense of fashion, and if I could even find a cute dress it would be as wrinkled as a ten-year old boy’s shirt.

As I head down the stairs, I try to imagine some sort of response in my head to the inevitable question that my mother is going to ask me. As I round the corner into the kitchen, I see her sitting there, and brace myself to evaluate the situation so I can go “save” my friends.

“Jenna, where are you possibly going at 12:30 at night?”

“Mary and Deanna called. They decided to have an impromptu sleepover and they asked if I wanted to come. Well, they demanded I come. Is it okay if I go?”

“That’s fine. Just drive safely. It’s late, you know there’s always crazy drivers on the road.”

“I always do. See you tomorrow.” As I breathe a sigh of relief that’s she’s letting me go, I realize I’m now going to actually have to spend the night at one of their houses. Instead of in my super comfortable bed, where I had been holed up skyping with my boyfriend....how many days until I go back to school? I love them, but wow I can’t wait to get that cherished break from cleaning up their messes, due to the same lack of boredom I’m suffering.

After I turn the keys in my ignition, the radio comes on blasting in the middle of Luke Bryan’s ‘Drunk on You,’ my current favorite song. It makes me smile and I start to sing along, hoping that by the time I get there they have solved their “serious” issue, and we can just go get a pint of Ben and Jerrys and fall asleep watching a ridiculous chick flick. I pull out of my driveway and take the three short turns that lead me to route 22, the main highway that goes through Bridgewater. The stupid ‘meeting place’ that they love so much is behind the Starbucks that’s next to the mall. However, I lucked out since it’s only three minutes from my house, while it’s fifteen from Marys. As I start to pick up speed since there’s no one around, I laugh. My next favorite song just came on--it must have been fate. I feel bad for dreading seeing my friends so much, and realize that we’ll get to go do something ridiculous instead.

Suddenly, I see headlights in my face. What? Cars tail lights aren’t that bright...and before I can think, I have to swerve out of the way as a car going over eighty miles zooms through the lane where I just was. The last thought I can remember is flying toward the ditch on the side of the road, in a panicked daze.

My Watch

The curved glass face is framed by shiny silver titanium.

When the light hits the edges, the shine is magnified and the time stands out.

The row of six white stitches stand at attention on the black leather band.

The worn leather near the clasp shows clear signs of wear, as tiny brown marks slowly appear with age.

The feel so comfortable, banded to my left wrist, only to leave when there is a fear of water.

The simple joy of being able to always tell the time brings a smile to my face.

A Christmas present that I didn’t ask for, but has become a daily part of life.

Knowing how happy it makes my mom every time she sees how well she knows my style.

The small black numbers, now an insurance that I never write the wrong date on my papers.

The comforting knowledge that I can now discretely count down the minutes in my classes without annoying my teachers.