Knots

We went to Rizzo's for the fabled garlic knots at my day's halftime; in the minutes after lab and before rehearsal, K2, S, and I escaped, and they kept boasting the taste: "These are the best garlic knots ever!" "You know you love them!" But after I sat down at the small, greasy table in the hole-in-the-wall pizza shop that I had overlooked at least twenty times, I was finally forever convinced that my friends adored these little bread wonders when, for only me and her, K2 walked up to the counter and asked for sixteen. Sure she took some home to her brother; sure they were small to begin with; sure she should have gotten more. The piping knots burnt my tongue, and I hoped the scar would stay forever.

Ten weeks until the end of school. Only ten. Then I'll be with a new eighth grade class - I'll turn thirteen - I'll rarely see my treasured pals. It's the little things that will last me forever, and when I am low, I won't remember the school dances or the picnics. I'll remember the way that K2 sucked the garlic sauce off her fingers, laughing all the way.