and that will be my room.

The front bedroom use to be Grandma’s. She’d visit from Florida once every four or five years—for a week, at most. Besides that, no one spent time in there. Ever. The door might open for the occasional wrapping paper hunt, or blanket search, but that was it. I didn’t understand why we kept Grandma’s room empty. Mom even closed the vent, making the stale air only breathable to dust-bunnies. The room was nearly twice the size of the one I shared with Jon, and we had too much personality as kids to “play nice” together in our cramped space. Jon liked N64’s Banjo-Kazooie and Cruis'n USA; I liked board games and girl-talk. I craved my own space, boy-free—the front bedroom would be perfect. Grandma certainly wouldn’t mind sharing with her sweet granddaughter for a few days once a decade.

When I turned twelve, my mom thought I was responsible enough to not color on the walls or rub silly-putty into the carpet. Once a week, I could play in Grandma’s room. Only on the floor. And no snacks allowed. Especially not crumbly Little Debbie Zebra Cakes.

That first afternoon, I stayed for hours. Mom trusted me to be on my “best behavior,” so I sat Indian-style on the floor, reading. I couldn’t focus, so I looked around, memorizing the room. The blank walls to fill with anything I wanted, like my Backstreet Boys poster, or maybe I’d get a movie poster of She’s All That! I’d tape them behind the headboard. That’d be perfect. I’d hang my glass pony from the light chain, my clothes in my own closet. I smiled at the closed door and listened. No unfunny jokes on Cartoon Network. No soap-opera-style Batman figurine fights. And, of course, no little brother. I loved the stillness. Everything about that room appealed to me. It was so...grown-up. The orange-and-grey floral bedspread and matching curtains were so ugly; I wondered if I’d start liking patterns like that, too. I loved the vanity table—even Mom’s room didn’t have one. And the queen-size bed—huge! I closed my eyes and fluttered my legs against the fluffy carpet, trying to hold back a pixie-like happy-dance. Oh, how I wanted that room!

For my thirteenth birthday, I got my ears pierced and slept in my new room. Not our room. My room. I’d been asking for months. Begging. Pleading. After much bribery, including “I love you, Mom” pressed-flower bookmarks and endless promises of my responsible maturity, Mom relented. To complete the best-birthday-ever, Mom let my BFFL spend the night. Liz and I pressed our noses against the vanity mirror as we imaginatively applied Mom’s leftover ‘80s make-up; the glittery gold lipstick sparkled like Tinkerbelle’s fairy dust. During games of M.A.S.H., we both married Jonathan Taylor Thomas and drove expensive Buicks. Mom brought us bag after bag of popcorn; she was gracious enough to revoke the no-snacks rule.

We giggled under that ugly bedspread until The Parent Trap lulled us to sleep—to sleep in my room.

[Edited 6.20.09]