Emily was my neighbor, my best friend, and the artist I aspired to be. Emily and I spent as much time together as we could. Almost every day after school Emily would come to my house and bounce on my trampoline. On the weekends we made sage potions in my side garden and in the summers we explored canyons at my mom's job. However, with my deflated sense of worth from school, my insecurities near Emily skyrocketed. Despite our close friendship I always felt inferior to her. I was intimidated by her exuberant and amiable personality. Emily's flowers taught me how to cope with my insecurities and anxieties towards school. In this writing, I will elucidate these lessons.

Wet springs screeched as our feet collided with the black fabric. Her hip length brown hair strung around the air, weightless. Our fingers brushed the clouds. In sync, we bounced into criss-cross applesauce.  A hose mounted in a nearby tree created thick rainfall around us. Musical giggles erupted from our lips. Time was faster than our racing heartbeats as the sky turned to a golden glow. The sinking sun brought gentle goosebumps, so we descended from our trampoline arcadia onto the shaded deck. Our wet clothes pooled water onto smooth concrete. She dragged her finger around the ground, creating dainty flowers. I watched in awe. The sun crept lower. Purple and pink rays hid behind the neighboring fence. My arm dripped and water splattered as I tried to replicate her. Emily took my hand and guided me. Chinese style flowers. Pointed tips. Long narrow petals. Delicate, fast movements. The water dried and she taught me again.

Waving goodbye to each other slowly, I watched her walk home. One day I would stop. One day our lives would become too complex, our time too limited to bounce on trampolines, but not now. Now was our time to share. Our time to whisper into each other's ears and throw bouncy balls at each other. However, in the times we didn't share; the times at school, the times I hid in bathroom stalls, and covered my ears; Emily gave me something to do. Drawing kept me busy. It kept my hands moving and my eyes down. Every moment, every second of free time I drew flowers. Obsessively, I drew flowers. When my friends found a new spot to eat lunch without me. When the volume of the room became too great. When their voices broke in frustration. When school gave me a headache that no amount of ibuprofen could relive. I drew flowers.

I had no focus in school. School was the epitome of my greatest anxieties. Rooms of people, bursting at the seams with noise, the walls always closed in. Always behind, both physically and mentally. Panting in the edge of the field, I covered my inhaler with my hands. Asthma was what losers had. Asthma was why I didn't belong. Asthma was the plague. However, the insides of school were far more solemn. I would never be the student they wanted. I would never excel in their tests. Years after I should have been able to, I still I couldn't read. I still couldn't count. I still couldn't write. I couldn't spell the word “city” in Ms. Morgan's class. When she called me up to write it I sobbed. Leaning over me she repeated, “Why don't you understand?” Under scrutiny from the way I wrote my b’s backward to how I used “and” and “the” interchangeably. Without a clue of what to do with me, my school put me in “special” classes. In these “special” classes I and two boys read plays. In our fifth play, “The Mouse and the Elephant”, I asked to be the Elephant. However, as my stately teacher pointed out, “You’re a girl and your voice is higher so you'll be the mouse.” So I was the mouse. Maybe it was then I placed my value on a timeline. Maybe that's when the prevalent lack of self-worth prevailed in my life. Eventually, I stopped listening. My teacher's words flowed through my ears as my concentration laid in my hands. Pointed tips. Long narrow petals. Delicate fast movements. Captivated with the graceful blossoms. The first thing Emily’s flowers taught me was to ignore both the inner and outer voices that said “you can't do that. You're not good enough.”

In first grade, I crumpled my pages in the trash. Empty notebooks full of ripped spiral edges laid in a circle around me. My fits of anger were no match for them. Teenage angst as a seven-year-old. I regarded my creations with disgust. They weren't good enough. No matter how hard I worked on my art. No matter how much time I put into them, they were never worthy of saving. I threw my passion in the trash. My artwork was never good enough. I was never good enough. Despite the love and support from my parents, I believed my inputs in the world had no importance. My biggest bully being myself.  I threw my art in the trash with vengeance. Embarrassment and a quiet smile peeked on my face when fellow classmates recovered a piece of my art. Gasping in excitement they questioned, “Who made this?” I raised my hand timidly, “I-I did.” My words were slow, uncertain as if questioning if I really had made that. That day art became my identity. When the teacher asked, “Who can draw this for me?” friends responded, “Cerise can!” With this new sense of ambition, art became my life. I knew how to draw flowers better than the back of my hand. Better than the state capitals. Better than long division. As Miss. Barnes lectured us on spelling tests I practiced drawing with my eyes closed. I practiced until each petal touched the other. Until the center of the flower was a perfect circle and the points came to precise angles. Scribbling down Chinese style flowers, on scrap pieces of paper, became my priority.

In second grade, my parents gifted me a sketchbook. It was magical. Each page thick with texture, rich in warm tones of white. A new page, a new emotion to illustrate. I clung it to my chest. Emily's flowers. Her pointed tips, long narrow petals, and delicate fast movements gave me a passion. She gave me something to care about. A way to express my emotions. A thing I wanted to improve upon. The sketchbook gave me even more incentive to care, to continue.  With the help of my new sketchbook, I stopped ripping out pages. I stopped throwing them in the trash. I had pride in my doodles. My Chinese style flowers of pointed tips and long and narrow petals made with delicate fast movements. The second thing Emily’s flowers taught me was to have pride and confidence within myself and my abilities.

The orientation and use of Emily's house was unparalleled. An open plan living room with just a chair, a plant, and a TV. A bedroom in the dining room. Stairs leading down to nothing, not to a basement, not a second story. Emily's mom worked the night shift at a casino three hours away. Emily's brother played video games on the TV while sitting on a drum. Emily's Grandma walked to the market with yellow bags and dance-exercised in the park. Emily's grandpa pruned the loquat tree and baked big slabs of fish. Her family's heart was big and open. In their backyard, by the loquat tree, a gravel walkway led to a small shed. Inside, a baby cried for a mother who was hours, days away. When Emily led me inside the shed, the teenage girl living there showed me she could touch both walls at the same time. A hanging bead divider separated the room in two. A small TV mounted on the westward facing wall. A pink crib touched the eastward wall. The girl was very happy but longed to see her mother, who was a doctor practicing far away. Three people, a baby, a teenager, and their father, lived in that home. Emily lounged on the couch-like-seat comfortably, viewing the TV. The girl did as well. I sat on the rug with my sketchbook. Pointed tips. Long narrow petals. Delicate fast movements. I felt like I didn't belong there. I knew I was younger than Emily, but at that moment I never felt it more. I didn't understand the hardships the girl faced. More so, I didn't understand how she felt so positively towards them and although Emily didn't face those problems herself, she understood them well. I was too young to understand. Too naive of the worlds cold winds, but I understood that I didn't understand. I felt like an outsider.

In the weeks following my encounter with Emily's new friend, I tried to distance myself from Emily. I feared being a burden on her complex life. So on my bike, I took the long route to avoid her home and the calls she left on my flip phone I shamefully ignored. However, my cowardly acts were in vain. The next week Emily appeared at my house. Balancing her weight from one heal to the next she questioned, “Hey where have you been?” My eyes focused on the tree in our front yard. I rubbed the rough bark between my fingers, contemplating my words. Her face read concerned, caring. My driveway sat on a hill. It's concrete aged with holes, filled with purple chalk. What could I say? That I felt jealous? “I've just been really busy...” I smiled sheepishly, “I'm sorry.” Still focusing on the ground the purple chalk sparked an idea in my head. Spastically exclaiming, “Hey do you want to draw” to Emily before she could say anything else, I grabbed the purple chalk and hastily drew a flower. Pointed tips. Long narrow petals. Delicate, fast movements. By the sixth petal I wrote, “I'm sorry I've been avoiding you, I thought you would want to hang out with your other friend more, I love you!” We hugged and Emily explained she didn't feel that way at all. The third thing Emily’s flowers taught me was to be truthful. To be truthful even when it meant being vulnerable.

Time always seemed to fly with Emily. Weeks flowed into months and months to years. When I was ten Emily was turning thirteen and very soon would be Emily thirteenth birthday party. I was scared of Emily’s birthday party. I was intimidated by her birthday party, by her unknown, older friends. I feared once again I would feel like an outsider. That I would be a burden. She wrote the invitation in cursive. The thick smooth lines could only have come from her feather pen. Inside the card, small cute anime animal faces gazed up. Black and white with big doe-y eyes. The “i” in my name was the flower she taught me to draw. I had to go. I couldn't disappear on her as I had years ago. I arrived on my scooter, fashionably ten minutes late as the Disney movies taught me. The lion door claw felt heavier than it had in the past. I knocked four times. Thump -What if this is a mistake?- Thump -What if her friends don't like me?- Thump -What if she just invited me out of sympathy?- Thump. Emily opened the door, giddy with delight. “Cerise!” she squealed, inviting me in. I let out a small sigh of relief. I stepped into the house and viewed a small group of laughing girls sitting in the living room. Emily and I approached them and sat in their circle. Art supplies sprawled out around us. Sketches of detailed cartoon characters and flowers were held by the girls. Pulling my sketchbook out of my backpack I joined them. Pointed tips. Long narrow petals. Delicate fast movements. I felt like I belonged. The fourth thing Emily’s flowers taught me was to step out of my comfort zone.

Emily's flowers taught me much: how to ignore voices that said “you can't do that, you're not good enough,”; how to have pride and confidence within myself and my abilities; how to be truthful; and how to step out of my comfort zone. However, ultimately I know I taught myself these things. That with the help of loving and supportive people around me and my own patience, I grew to the person I am now. Emily's flowers were an outlet for the emotions I couldn't comprehend at such a young age; my sketchbook was a place I wasn't judged, a safe place to grow; and Emily was one of the most loving and supportive people around me. In many ways, Emily's flowers made me the person I strive to be today and the person I prepare to be in the future. Although I don't draw those flowers of pointed tips, long and narrow petals, with delicate, fast movements as commonly as I did years ago, I can say confidently that I will never stop drawing character from what they represent to me now.