We notice the downy hairs on our legs growing darker. We wonder what we should do. Gretchen’s mom shows her how to shave, so we all walk to the CVS one Saturday and split a package of pink Bic razors, single blade, because we don’t know any better and they’re all we can afford with our dog walking money, our allowances, the coins we scrounged from beneath our recliners.

Alone in our bathtubs, we carve holes in our shins before we learn to be gentle with ourselves, sloughing off baby hairs, leaving a prickly white soap film that lingers on the surface of the water.

When hairs begin to sprout in our armpits, we go for them, too. We lather on deodorant as though hiding a secret. We don’t talk about the changes. We steal glances at each other when we think no one is looking.

Sammy starts to wear a bra, and so we all do, too. We notice, we compare. We begin to measure – who, when, how much, how big?

At first, we compare to convince ourselves we’re normal, we’re just like everyone else.

But then, we begin to compare to convince ourselves we’re better. We’re better than Virginia, whose eyebrows meet in the middle. Better than Courtney, whose breath smells like the water in a vase of dead flowers. Better than Monica, who still plays with dolls (we hear). Better than Katie, on the day a red spot blooms on the back of her white shorts. We snicker, relieved it wasn’t us.

Originally from Minneapolis, Nicole Desjardins Gowdy now lives in the foothills outside Los Angeles. She studied creative writing at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, where she received a University Book Store Award for Academic Excellence for her senior thesis, a collection of short stories. Her writing has been shortlisted for the WestWord Micro Fiction Prize and has appeared in Black Fox Literary Magazine, West Trade Review, MoonPark Review, Literary Mama, and more. Connect with her on Instagram @nicoledesjardinsgowdy.