In English, we wrote personal essays based on our past experiences. This one doesn't require too much description. After writing it, I recorded myself saying it and made it into a podcast.
Flecks of White
We will be princesses wearing pink fluffy dresses and thick makeup tonight. Our grins are nearly as wide and bright as our many pumpkins’. Dusk is many hours ahead, and we are already restless. Our mothers converse casually in my best friend’s driveway. We urge my mother to bring the two of us to my house. She accepts and takes us for the seven minute ride in the green Dodge Caravan. When we arrive, we are bored and do not know how to spend the day. My mother has just left to pick up some candy for distribution to little monsters once night falls and the moon peeks its face up to say hello.
My fellow future princess Natasha suggests that we play with the makeup my mother left on the bathroom counter. She is going to use it on us after we get into our costumes, but our curiosity gets the best of our innocent minds. We scamper in on small feet, surveying said surface for the treasure we sought. Of the many oddly shaped containers scattered about, only the lipstick is recognized by our naïve eyes. We sloppily paint our lips fire truck red. We admire ourselves and each other in the large circular mirror, truly feeling like nobility. We chat about nonsense haughtily, attempting British accents.
Starting a few weeks before that Halloween, my mother went on a painting spree. She repainted many of our walls and rooms over the course of a few months. She repainted the doors of the first floor only a couple of days before the aforementioned holiday. She spent hours on each one, making sure the paint was even and that there were no bubbles. I watched her with wide and young eyes, observing the care and energy she put into each stroke. After my mom painted my bathroom door, I had the great idea of taking a shower. As usual for myself at that age, I took a very long and hot shower, perhaps mumbling a few lines of a Britney Spears song in the process. I still do not fully understand how it happened, but the steam from my shower altered the freshly painted door. It developed large bubbles, the type that my mother had tried so hard to avoid. Luckily, the bathroom was small, so one would rarely see the affected side of the door. Still I was terrified that she would discover my fault at any time.
Back in our royal bathroom, I glance to my right and see the door with its many pimples. I have an idea! I will peel the bubbles off of the door and my mother will never figure out that they were there! Executing my plan, I reach as high up as I can and pick at an obtrusion with my chewed and uneven fingernail. It pops and sighs. What have I done? It is even more obvious now. Natasha is watching me curiously, mouth agape, revealing daubs of lipstick on her front teeth. I reach up and begin to peel off a section of the loose paint. It won’t come off neatly. It still won’t! In frustration, I tug at it without thinking. Rip. I am now holding a chunk of paint two and a half feet long, and one foot wide. At first, I look at it with respect. What a glorious sheet of paint it is! Then I see my error. I have made the situation many times worse. I look over to Natasha, whose mouth is open yet wider. Her brow indicates a mixture of horror and curiosity. My heart is sinking rapidly and my stomach juices are burning at it furiously. Just as I hit the nadir of internal pain, my mother opens the bathroom door. She lets out a small scream and glares at me with horrified green eyes. I am still clutching the glossy layer of eggshell white paint. I gape at her and my intestines have an orgy, forming a large knot in my abdomen. I am a good girl, I cannot get in trouble! I point harshly.
“She did it!”
“What?” Natasha looks at me with constricted, terrified pupils.
My plan has worked. My mother is scolding Natasha instead of precious me. Relief flows out to every vein, and I watch my best friend being shouted at. After a moment, the relief doesn’t feel so relieving. I chose to rescue myself from drowning by pushing her head underwater. I decide not to tell my mother that I lied, because that would get me in even more trouble. I watch, not quite so helplessly. Natasha begins to tell my mother the truth, and for a few seconds I am scared she will believe it. Unfortunately for her, she is usually the one who breaks the rules and gets in trouble.
The day went by very slowly. I felt terrible for lying, and my best friend was furious with me. Several hours passed. When night finally fell, we donned our dresses, hats, and wands with sparkling streamers. Before we could embark on our candy-filled adventure, our mothers wanted to take a picture of their little princesses. That picture is still hanging in my room. Flecks of white paint are visible under my nails. Her forced smile and sad eyes are forever watching me.