I don’t know what’s up with Dad lately, but he’s been on this nostalgia kick. First, he dug out our old home videos. Then he started making pancakes in the shapes of animals again, like he used to when Hillary and I were little. (I got a giraffe. Hillary got a dolphin. Don’t ask.) And then, tonight at dinner, he suddenly said, “You know what we haven’t done in a while? A height check.”
I almost spit out my lemonade.
For normal people, maybe height checks are fun. For me? Not so much. The last time we did it, I was nine. And I was... well, exactly the same height I am now. Or so I thought.
But there was Dad, already hauling out the ruler and that fat black Sharpie he keeps in the junk drawer. “C’mon, girls,” he said, like this was the best idea since pizza.
Hillary practically leaped out of her chair. She loves this kind of thing. Probably because she’s twelve years old and already 4'6". (Yeah. Life is cruel.) She stood against the doorframe in the kitchen like she was posing for a magazine cover, and Dad carefully lined her up.
“Four foot six and a half,” he announced after marking the wall. “You’re growing like a weed, Hil.”
She grinned. “Told you.”
Then Dad looked at me.
I wanted to disappear into my chair. “Do I have to?” I asked.
He smiled, not his usual goofy one—his real smile. “Just for fun.”
Mom gave me a nod from across the table. Hillary wiggled her eyebrows at me like don’t chicken out. So I sighed, pushed back my chair, and shuffled over.
I stood against the wall, straight as I could, pressing my back into it like maybe I could will myself to be taller. Dad lined up the ruler on top of my head. I closed my eyes.
“Okay,” he said, drawing the line. “Step back.”
I did. Slowly. Like I was walking away from a crime scene.
He stared at the mark. Then stared at me. “Three foot ten.”
“What?” I nearly yelled it.
He chuckled. “Three ten.”
I blinked so hard my eyes hurt. “But... but I was three eight. Forever.”
Mom came over to see for herself. She even grabbed the measuring tape because she’s precise like that. “Three foot ten,” she confirmed, tapping the wall. “Two whole inches.”
I was frozen. No, seriously, I couldn’t move. Two inches. TWO. That’s, like... I don’t know, a million millimeters! It wasn’t a huge deal for someone like Hillary or anyone else in my class, but for me? It was everything.
Dad nudged me with his elbow. “Told you you’d catch up.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Hillary said, smirking. “You’re still a shrimp.”
I gave her my best evil glare. “Yeah? Well, I’m a shrimp with a growth spurt.”
That shut her up for about two seconds before she started giggling.
Dad made the classic mistake of picking me up again, like he always does. “Soon you won’t need me to do this,” he said, spinning me around.
I pretended to roll my eyes. “You’ll miss it.”
He winked. “Probably.”
So, yeah. It was just two inches. But when you’ve been waiting years for your body to finally get the memo? It’s HUGE.
I don’t know if this is the start of something big (pun intended), but for the first time in forever, I feel... taller.
Okay, not tall. But taller. And that’s enough for today.
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