Under a dim light bulb in Donna’s basement, we washed
grime from the recently gathered chicken eggs and then played a game of pool.
With a houseful of sibs, her basement was a good hideout from others and the
summer heat. Somewhat bored, we talked of starting junior
high, who our teachers might be, going out for sports for the first time, and
boyfriends.
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While I sat on an overturned bucket --trying to talk myself
into it, trying to talk myself out of it-- Donna gathered alcohol, a long
needle, and cotton, and returned to the basement. I took a deep breath under
the shadowy light overhead and watched her prick her finger and the blood ooze
out. “It’s your turn,” she said. I turned away from her so as not to see the
bright red drops on her finger and scratched my own finger. No blood. I
scratched harder, and enough blood seeped from my pointer finger. We pressed
our fingers together and said, “We are blood sisters!”
I can’t say I felt any different after the deed was done. I
can tell you that she is still one of my best BFF.
Need a BFF?
Need a blood sister or brother?
You already got
it....
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