① Personal Narrative: Girls In High School

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Personal Narrative: Girls In High School

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How to Write a Personal Narrative

I rinsed a ripe peach under the sink and lifted the fruit to my lips. Juice dribbled down my chin to my arm. The sweet smell diffused into the living room and pulled Dad away from the football reruns on TV. You got peaches? I showed him how to peel the skin off the fleshy fruit, run the blade around the seed, and loosen the peach halves to cut the juicy fruit.

As I made pie dough, he asked questions: How long does it take to bake? How much sugar? Are you adding almond extract? How many peaches? What should I do with the seeds? I combined our efforts with a lattice topping over the bed of peaches, and then signaled Dad to open the oven. Standing there at the counter, showing him how to slice and measure and mix in a calm, firm voice, I suddenly felt grown up. The summer had reversed our roles; now, I was the adult, wincing as the blade neared his fingers. Mom worked through quarantine, so I stayed home and cooked his dinner, washed his T-shirts and helped him make phone calls. I stayed up late thinking about him and anxiously monitored him like an overbearing caretaker.

I decided then that I would be grateful for just four more years with Dad, enough for him to see me become an adult for real. Once the pie crust shone golden through the tinted oven door, we gathered on the patio to eat and watch the birds. To me, there was nothing better than feeling the water fill my ears and fold over my head until my feet scraped the concrete bottom. The feeling of disappearing. Through the lenses of my pink-tinted goggles, underwater was magical. When it got dark, the lights on the sides of the pool would turn on, dim yellow circles to guide swimmers to the walls. They always reminded me of the glowing eyes of deadly sea dragons, able to devour anyone even grown-up fourth-grade teachers in one bite.

Even better, though, was the sound. In the open air, sound was too insistent. But beneath the surface, things were quiet. The sounds that used to overwhelm me lost all their power, garbled and muffled. They intermingled with the sloshing of the water and the gentle blub-blub of air bubbles escaping my nose. It was not random, all the noises worked together to create a symphony.

Perhaps the best thing about the bottom of a swimming pool, though, was that at the bottom of a swimming pool, I was alone. They were all far, far away up on the surface. It was only me. Just me. I used to wish I could live underwater. But once, when I came up for air, I spotted a girl my age at the other side of the pool. We locked eyes before I went back under, just for a second. She actually wanted to talk to me. She wanted to be friends. So we talked. She never once mentioned the scabs on my knees or the gaps between my teeth.

She just laughed and said that she liked spending time with me. I liked spending time with her, too. I really did. How could I when there was so much waiting for me on the surface? I grasp my underwear and pull them down, watching the white fabric land around my feet. I am naked; exposed. I look across the room at the Pink Paper Gown, walk over, and unfold its perfect symmetry. I wrap it around my cold body and tie the plastic string around my waist. I sit on the side of the chair with two stirrups extending from the end, my feet resting on the cold wooden floor. The short, kind doctor comes in and asks me to lay down.

Though hesitant, I follow her directions; she is, in fact, the first person I ever saw in this world. She delivered me 17 years before. The last time she saw me, I was pure, innocent, unaware; my blue, childish eyes never having seen the harsh truths of this world. Now, I am her patient, for reasons I am horrified to admit. The doctor walks to the end of the chair. One blue glove at a time, she prepares. My feet are in the stirrups, but I remain with my knees together. I know she is safe. She lifts the Pink Paper Gown. I am scared; not of her, but of the memories I know will flood my mind when the blue gloves land on my skin. However, I do as she says. For the first time since Him, I am being touched.

I know she is a doctor. The Woman in the Blue Chair and I talked about this. I close my eyes, tight. The memories come, and I lay there, trying not to cry. All I picture in my mind is Him. His terrifying brown eyes, His grotesque pink sweatshirt, His dangerous hands. I look down to remind myself that it is the doctor down there, not Him. I see him on top of me … my head banging against the side of the car … my hands on his chest ….

Breathe in for five, hold for five, exhale for five. My body may have fixed itself, but my mind cannot repair on its own. I should have come six months ago. I should have told my mom back in May about the spots of blood I kept finding in my underwear all month long. I lay back down. I put my feet back up. I spread my knees. The cotton swab enters. I hold my breath once more. We went to see a movie one Friday afternoon. It was spring; there was no snow on the ground, but I was still cold. One wrong word, one misstep, and we were liable to tumble into the vast unknown. I was freezing. We sat in the car a while after the movie.

The late day sun fell through the windshield, striking her skin and bathing it in white-wine light, and she was radiant. An old ballad filtered through the speakers, a fifties star singing about a woman in a velvet voice existing in stark dichotomy to what was happening between us. With those juvenile words everyone longs to hear in their melodramatic adolescence, when they are an insecure, doe-eyed high-school student, we fell. She whispered it like one would whisper a secret under the cover of darkness, tenebrous night making the speaker confident.

The words fell heavy onto my ears, the weight of their implication pressing onto my chest, combining with the ice in my body, stealing the air from my lungs. What would my parents say? We sat in silence, listening to that balladeer croon about being rejected once again. I got out of her car after the song finished and went home. Her vulnerability that day was a double-edged sword, and we both ended up bloody. Leaving her words unacknowledged felt like leaving an open wound to fester. Neither of us, however, were willing to speak. We acted like nothing had happened at all, making snide remarks about everyday happenings, gossiping innocently about school goings-on.

But, it was a kind of breathless normalcy — we were just waiting, waiting for a time when we were old enough, brave enough, to meet her confession head-on. My parents had put me into softball when I was in…. My heart pounds harder than it has ever pounded before. The initial feelings of nervousness and excitement are momentarily forgotten with the intoxicating smell of chlorine. As each ear-piercing whistle is heard, the biggest moment of my swimming career is approaching. The announcer…. We were in the same grade, went to the same school, and shared many classes together. We both belong to the school band and both played the oboe. For several years in Junior High, we were official BFF's Best Friends Forever , enjoying such typical adolescent girl activities as sleepovers, movies, Yes, we both loved the Twilight series at the time and incessant texting.

We were similar in so many ways. It wasn't until we entered HIgh School that I began to notice subtle…. I have made many good friends through the theatre department, and spending everyday with the cast and crew helped me further understand them and how they each think, which will help me become an outstanding citizen on campus because I will be able to help others when in need. School administrators suck.

When they informed me their system glitched and I was signed up for the wrong type of Anatomy class, I handled it rather well. When they told me that I couldn't switch and that I and I quote, 'will have to suck it up and deal with it,' I thought, I handled it just as well. Only if you count that the head of baby Cupid in front of the main building would be kicked into the parking lot and knocking a freshmen out cold, handling it well. I felt really guilty that,…. Essays Essays FlashCards.

Browse Essays. Sign in. Page 1 of 50 - About Essays. Read More. Words: - Pages: 8. Personal Narrative-High School It is the final days in the senior week. Words: - Pages: 3. Words: - Pages: 4. Personal Narrative-Attending High School of four; I have one sister, and two passive parents who emphasize strength and the importance of appearance.

Words: - Pages: 6. Personal Narrative: High School Softball R "Progress is impossible without change, and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything"- George Bernard Shaw. Words: - Pages: 2. Words: - Pages: 9. Ready To Get Started? Create Flashcards. Discover Create Flashcards Mobile apps.

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