Kimberlee K.

Let me take you there.

Clay Aiken and Ruben Studdard close out the top two on American Idol, Finding Nemo is released and “I can speak whale” is arguably the funniest thing in the entire world, iTunes launches, Blockbuster and Hollywood Video are still going strong, and, if you’re me, you’re starting 8^th grade.

High school has become a mystical place that the rom-coms I rent by the bunches describe as the major turning point in every person’s life, and I am prepared to meet my great love by walking in slow motion across the quad. I am counting down the days to turn 16, and my friends and I constantly poke each other in the arm as a silent way to ask if we’ve gotten our periods yet.

I bring my CD-ROM player on bus rides and blast Fallen by Evanescence and Lifestyles of the Rich and the Famous by Good Charlotte, telling my friends I will “probably grow up to be a drummer” even though I’m sensitive to loud noises.

I also make mixed CDs that my parents occasionally grit their teeth at when I, a 13-year-old girl and forever the youngest in my class, list the tracks I want included. Like “Gigolo” by Nick Cannon and “Naughty Girl” by Beyonce. Most of the songs, however, are merely an invitation to look dramatically out the window and mouth lyrics about love and relationships that I don’t understand yet. Like “The First Cut is the Deepest” by Sheryl Crow, “Why Can’t I” by Liz Phair and “There’s Gotta by More to Life” by Stacie Orrico.

I am watching One Tree Hill live each week and downloading pictures of Chad Michael Murray from the internet to make collages. I am also grappling with the death of John Ritter, who played the dad on my favorite TV comedy 8 Simple Rules, trying to understand how people can just die.

Life is confusing.

Each morning, I pull my hair back into a tight ponytail and apply a lot of gel to ensure there is not a flyaway in sight, even if this means my head is crunchy for the rest of the day. I always wear a puka shell necklace, I collect charms for my square link bracelet, and feel fanciest when I put my hair in a claw clip with one single piece falling across my face.

I cry when acne makes her first appearance on my forehead and cry when I am at once thrust deeper into the requirements of maintaining good hygiene, which I find exhausting. I also cry every time I watch A Walk to Remember, and whenever my hair dries after a shower and it is curly rather than straight.

My mom gets a cellphone, the first in our family, and I manually alphabetize the contacts each time she adds a new one. I am disappointed to find out it doesn’t have the game Snake, but I like pretending to send texts to our home number, dialing 4433555555666 to spell out hello.

I think I know everything, but I don’t know much at all.

I am cutting the tags out of shirts and sweaters and still occasionally wearing my socks inside out so the seam doesn’t touch my toes. I am dreading the day I have to get my braces back on and still embarrassed to talk about bras. I devour every issue of Teen People and blush every time I see a cover story on Cosmopolitan. I only read books that are assigned in school and record videos on my digital camera that I am convinced will be a movie one day.

I love ice cream and fish sticks and Pop-Tarts and have no awareness of my body. I like to pretend that my five-year-old brother is my son, and can only fall asleep at night with a movie playing at full volume. I am running on pure emotion and I’m stomping my foot whenever I’m angry.

I am thirteen and it is hard, and my biggest concern is 8^th grade. It is 2003 and I’d never guess that so much of the world I know won’t exist 21 years later. But I might be relieved to find out that one day I’ll realize I was doing my best, and that the me 21 years later is proud of the me in 2003.