She was hot. Everyone said it when she started 7th grade with us – the new girl. Was rare someone slipped into a non-entry year at the only prep school on the island, but hey, she was smart and creative and very confident. Aquarius of course, my kind of girl – apparently all my besties in life usually fall into a few consistent signs with Aquarius by far end up my ride or dies, at least for a solid portion of time before life pulls us apart. Must be the fun, rebellion they have – but also that unemotional response that seems to handle every grave situation in life with ease.

Already with mature hips hitting a size 5 in womens, sexy curves and size b/c boobs, a pretty smile and thick brown hair – she spoke Spanish way better than any of us did because of course, no one in Hawaii had really grown up around it. We all were just trying to pass requirements to graduate with one of 3 options for foreign language (Japanese, French or Spanish back in early 2000s) while she was born in Mexico, grown in California and therefore, way ahead of the game for Spanish honors. She was the only child , daughter of a golf-course developer, well read and sassy as hell.

I had never seen red-dotted Henna-lines on a body-up-close before her. I had never heard anyone call California “Cali” or say “hella” as she would soon rub off on me. She pulled me into choir, geek-debates in homeroom and home-made camcorder music videos impersonating virgin-pop-princess, Brittney Spears and R&B queen-of-the-dammed, Aaliyah. She was the driver of the relationship for sure and one of the most influential people of my life and as much as I want to give her full credit in naming her, I’ll have to call her Eva – just in case she gets famous and I get in trouble one day. (I mean, she’s got a huge following right now with these amazing feminist podcasts and a subscription workshop on female embodiment – so hey, she’s getting there).

“I can’t let you go out like this,” Eva glared at my oversized church branded T-shirt and Costco jean shorts. Not like there was anywhere to go out to at age 12 in Maui. But she had this fantasy that sneaking into Hapa Night Club (the only “nightclub” besides the upscale hotel lounges available) would fill her craving for the Cali excitement she missed.

“I couldn’t tell my mom where we were going though, and my dad would never let me wear anything like you – you know that.” I was totally risking a full month grounded. But Eva was so fun. Last weekend was the crystal ceremony in the backyard jungle, the weekend before was phone calls with the boys about boobs, the other weekend we snuck into the movies even with my little diapered brother in toe (I was always on babysitting duty but she didn’t let it bother her)… She fed me her mom’s home-made weed-brownies, all the PG13/R rated movies I wasn’t allowed to watch at home - she’d get for me at blockbuster. Not to mention she devirginized me by explaining in detail what a blow-job was and that fuck was a verb not a noun, the 1st time we hung out.

“It’s ok, babe, I gotchu” she started pulling out crop-tops and leather skirts from her drawer. “We just gotta get rid of that bush too – all of them, the one on your face, your legs, that bikini - everything.” wait …. What?

Hair Removal. No one had ever taught me to pluck my eyebrows, shave my legs, and definitely not anything about a bikini line. My conservative 3rd generation (in hawaii from Japan, some would say I’m “yonsei”) Japanese family only filled in the full sized eyebrows - not ever “shape” them fashionably and they only shaved the calves- not ever up the thighs and no one dared change the 70’s full grown standard…except me. I was the oldest grandchild in that era - and the black sheep of many conservative things I’d come to find out those next few years.

She had me sitting naked on the toilet so she could reach both the tweezers and the shave crème, and rinse off the razor in the sink. Yep, she was grooming me – one leg up at a time, that pink foam, TLC playing in the background. I had a couple bleeding nicks but she was careful overall. I think the eyebrow plucking hurt more. The fresh white skin under the brows needed concealer to match the rest of my tanned face.

The tender gap inbetween the thigh and the cooch though – that is a hard spot to get on your own – peering over trying to see it is fucking hard. “Just give me the razor, Sarah.” Sarah – my name before Oahu and modeling for Japanese (who called me Naomi San) took over – she was so unbothered about sex, nakedness, swearing, like a true international. I’ll never forget the feel of her fingers pressing my then smaller, lips - away from the razor so she didn’t nick me down there, just holding my breathe, trying so hard not to flinch.

“Why do we have to shave me there anyway? We aren’t going to the beach or anything, right?” My extremely sheltered upbringing screaming innocence. The red lipstick puckered in that sass as she chimed, “Just in case we get a boy tonight.” She was truly trying to give me the upper hand although I would have no idea what she was talking about for another year and a half or so,” I want you to feel amazing and beautiful, like we should. And you don’t want it all itchy like that anyway, shhiiieet.”

Knock.

Her mom was ready to drive us - she’d be the one to give the ok to the bouncer to let us in (they used to let you in if you had a “parent” to vouch for you). The drive to Kihei a full 45 min from Haiku hill. Her mom was passive to her, let her change the radio as she pleased. Eva finished me up in that car ride - dusted bronzer on my collarbone and in my very small cleavage gap (barely there) peeking from the tube top she had dressed me in. Hapa’s Club was NOT at all what Eva expected – the reggae bands, the weed-smokey, dark, one-room “club” was nothing like what Cali could sport but it we still had fun. Our roles switched a bit – she was suddenly the tall white girl in an slanted-eye/ brown skin territory and her city clothes with Ralph Lauren perfume stood out against flip flops, tshirts, and the plumeria smell from locals wearing the flower in their ear.

“Drop your knees, Eva,” I instructed her. “Then pop up like this, kinda swing,” I showed her the slow-skank. “Skanking” was the only way to dance to the 4 note beats – island style. You’d only know if you ever saw it, otherwise, it’s impossible to describe. She was a hit. Local guys were trying to dance with her – and she was taking it in, open minded, fast learner. No one seemed to know what to do with a white hottie like that, red lips, red nails, 12 going on 22, full jewelry in heels with height beyond every part-Asian there.

So, we didn’t end up “getting a boy” (or her number getting asked for) like she hoped. I loved being with her though, she was worth it all - I could care less about a boy… I savor those days - because one day I DID choose boys over her and I’d never make another tight-skirt-slutty music video with her again… one day I did finally learn why she shaved my bikini line and legs and my innocence would leave and so would those Romi and Michelle movie nights with her… those half-sad days that girls start to become women. I’d never forget her though… those intimate days in life where you find what you are capable of and what people are like in their most naked experiences- it’s what fuels us the rest of outer lives… those strong bonds, those times of vulnerability, testing, learning, teaching, touching, tasting - in my mind I’ll always remember those early days of periods and crop tops as Hella Fine.

xoxo

*Please note that this read is meant to be entertaining, not necessarily factual