Excerpt from my honors thesis The Blueberry Moon, completed at Brown University in April 2025.
Magical Gates
Rose took my shaky hand, and we flew into the cabin where her mom was waiting. The screen door creaked open, and I saw her mom wearing the most beautiful white dress. I did not feel out of place in the light-filled room with Rose, her mother, and grandmother because our friendship was always intertwined with her family. There were shared Christmas trees, monopoly games, and endless sleepovers.
My pink frilly dress danced in rhythm with the flower petals I blew into the gentle grass. I stood beside Rose’s grandfather facing Rose’s stepbrothers. Her soon-to-be stepfather winked at me, telling me that I had walked perfectly. He understood that I was a nervous kid. I placed the same amount of care into walking perfectly that Rose’s grandmother did when braiding my frizzy curls. My attention turned to Rose. Her grin was so large that her missing teeth were visible. We held hands and her grandfather led the ceremony. My young eyes absorbed more love than they ever had before.
Amidst the dragonflies and under the willow trees, Rose and I skipped and twirled and laughed. We thought we were spinning as gracefully as the butterflies soared. For all the memories I have lost, I can still taste the tiny blueberry smoothies. They were served in shot glasses and hinted of raspberry. The pink melded to the blueberries to create a dreamy blue—the color I used to wish the moon was. I used to believe that I could transform the moon if I wished on enough eyelashes. Rose and I drank the night away with those little blueberry smoothie shots.
Blue was always present when we returned to her grandmother’s lake house over the years. I loved that one version of “we” was myself and Rose and her family. At age eleven, back in the cabin, we spun along with the records her stepfather cherished. Her stepfather’s long legs sprung ahead, and we followed. He wanted to show us his other prized possession: his bees. Rose used to glide with the bees on the monkey bars while I ran shrieking despite her promises that they would not hurt me. I believed her silky golden hair protected her as her honey-like-shine lulled the tiny monsters into a trance. When I stepped forward to the mesh separating us from the swarming bees, one pesky bee zoomed past the barrier and attached itself to my tangled brunette hair. Her stepdad screamed for everyone to run, and Rose ran by my side toward the lake. Fully dressed, Rose jumped in the lake with me, despite my being the only one who needed to. The bees became irrelevant, and we splashed in the safe water, playing mermaids.
Rose and I had been inseparable since the first day of kindergarten. I still remember deciding to have our first sleepover. We were eating pizza that was so greasy that the light pollution and blueberry moon shimmered on the cheese when Rose’s mom called mine. Rose and I only parted when we entered our individual imaginary worlds. Abalone was a mermaid that used to leave letters and gifts for Rose on the beach. I was jealous that Rose knew a mermaid, but I walked the kindergarten halls with a pink beluga whale. Rose and I learned to meet in a world of fiction that we spun together. Through first grade, we sat for hours in her attic with Kit, the American Girl Doll, because we were spies like her. Spy Club was eventually replaced by Friday Sewing Club with Rose’s mom. I still have the white blanket with rainbow hearts that Rose made for me.
As we read more our shared imagination expanded. Percy Jackson was our third-grade obsession. The book’s premise was that Greek gods and mortals had children who lived at Camp Half Blood to be shielded from monsters. A protective, large tree marked the barrier of their camp. We believed the edge of our lower school’s black chain-link fence kept the monsters away. During recess, once we reached our large tree, we would assume our roles. The game was determined by who our god parent was, mainly ignoring our actual parents. Rose was magnetic, everyone wanted to share their snacks with her, so she could have been Aphrodite’s child. Rose was also compassionate and brave, making Athena the obvious parent—we even whispered about the possibility that her wise mom was Athena. Some days Rose was also Poseidon’s as she was happiest in water. I was always Poseidon’s daughter due to my blue eyes. Everyone could always see how Rose was special, but it took me longer to figure out what I liked about myself. I used to long to be attached to Athena, craving her confidence and perceived intelligence. Now I would choose Artemis.
We believed in the demigods so much that we asked our trusted third-grade teacher to help us reach Camp Half Blood.
Mr. Tome looked at us and said, “Why don’t you think about this more and then come back to me.”
We giggled and retreated to the hallway. We had made a mistake; Mr. Tome was obviously not part of the Greek gods’ world. We were on our own, but we did not mind.
Our obsession continued until The Hunger Games entered our lives in fourth grade. Rose began reading the books, so I begged my parents to let me read them as well. We still met at our Percy Jackson tree during recess, or we would hide behind the gym pillars during dodgeball to discuss The Hunger Games. The Lower School gym teacher, who only knew my name as Princess, yelled at us while we avoided playing. He knew every boy’s name but nicknamed each girl. I was too busy living in make-believe to understand the reality that was being spun around me.
This idyllic period with Rose showed me the depth of joy and companionship that could be found in friendships. When Rose and I wanted to do different things, I abandoned whatever my mind had been set on and followed her. The ability to depend on Rose created a blueprint for what I thought close friendship was. Rose and I grew up in reference to each other.
I wonder if our bond was partly due to our belief in the unreal and oblivion to reality. As we had feared, outside the Lower School’s gates, the world was waiting to trade in our magic for monsters.