Exhale

“We have to make a full tea set.”

“Okay, okay,” Pooja said. She dug deep into the soil to retrieve our clay. I waited patiently for her to show me her roll-and-bend technique to make the tiny handles for our teacups. We were artists, rolling clay into the tea cups to use for our pretend tea parties. We were hosts. We were sculptors. We were friends. I was her confidante. She told me about the boys who teased her for raising her hand in class. She confessed that she couldn’t wait to get her menses. She told what she thought that was. Her narratives made me feel more. More than six. More than a measly first standard student. When we were together in public, I carried myself taller, like her, chest out, spine straight.