One. Family photo beside the Christmas tree, crunchy wrapping paper and baby was in a red, felt Santa Claus hat. Mommy cooked dinner and danced to Madonna.

Four. New house. Big hill, big eyes and a secret place behind the fence in the back yard. There's lots of hairy poison ivy vines. They feel nice in cold places between fingers.

Seven. Not baby, anymore. Baby number two and the bedroom is blue now. Leaf trail houses on the top of the hill, onion grass and snail shells in spring.

Eleven. New house. New school. Big girl. Perfect for soccer and Judo and being scared of the dark. Sleeps with blanket over head, maybe no one will see. First crush, and of course it's love because it's sixth grade and he was so cute. Best Friend moves home again, Virginia has mailed her back, unwanted. Nightmares start, thriving in little hash marks counting circles of the ceiling fan and missing pencils on inside of wrist.

Twelve. Wins the first tournament. Breaks a nose, an arm, and a few fingers. New Best Friend has a perfect giggle, short enough for my pocket. First real boyfriend. Break up. Icy wooden decks and the discovery of hoodies. Becomes one of the guys. Vision is tainted, hands unsteady with sharp things. Oops. Hash marks count five.

Thirteen. Done with new-old school. Ready for new-new. Fills up journals by the dozen and lines bookshelves with constant rainy-day blues and good scrabble words. Hash marks count ten – one for each letter of obsequious, the unattainable scrabble nirvana.

Fourteen. Hair is chopped off, might as well be bald. Love it. Friends of friends and pruny from too much pool time. Latin and Art and root words and teddy bears surrounded by beer bottles and a kitchen knife – art teacher says it tells a story. His eyes have a lot of questions. Hash marks count 15, the number of hours slept in a week.

Fifteen. The Other Me introduced Dexter and Starburst jelly beans. New Best Friend needs to meet The Other Me. Quilted stargazing and summer reading that never gets done. Adventures into rotting buildings, a broken piano and children's clothes in the echoing gym. Eerie and hold hands. Hash marks count 20, the number of sweaters collected.

Sixteen. Warm water and a locked bathroom door. No steam and the shower runs cold with no one in it. Hash marks count one, from palm to elbow. One, because baby missed the tiny felt Santa Claus hat. There won't be any more family pictures.

Seventeen. Bedroom is mustard yellow, and dusty. It's dark under here. Hash marks count zero, sewn and sealed with concealer. Still had to be beautiful, like smiles with that crunchy wrapping paper. March, and the Christmas tree is starting to lose its needles. Mommy cooks dinner and dances to Madonna.