Continue this story. "Anya and Himari

Anya James had always been an outsider. Growing up in a small midwestern town as an Indian-American girl in the early 2000s wasn’t easy. She always felt like an alien, standing out with her dark hair, thick eyebrows, and bindi her mom insisted she wear to cultural events. But Anya’s quiet demeanor wasn’t what people noticed most—it was her knack for stumbling into awkward moments. She’d trip over her words, spill lunch trays, or accidentally raise her hand at the wrong time in class, drawing snickers from her peers.

Himari Matsubara was no better at blending in. Her family had moved from California just a year ago, and she stuck out like a sore thumb with her thrifted plaid skirts, oversized band tees, and combat boots. Himari wasn’t shy, but her bluntness often rubbed people the wrong way. It didn’t help that her Japanese-American heritage made her a target for snide remarks from kids who thought her love for manga and anime was just “weird.”

The two found each other during seventh grade, sitting next to each other at the back of the library during lunch. Both had taken refuge there to avoid the lunchroom’s cacophony of laughter and whispered insults. Himari had her headphones on, blasting Hole’s Live Through This. Anya, clutching a book she wasn’t actually reading, noticed the familiar album art peeking out of Himari’s backpack.

“Is that…Hole?” Anya asked nervously.

Himari looked up, surprised. Most kids didn’t even know who Courtney Love was. “Yeah. You listen to them?”

Anya nodded. “I like Nirvana, too. My cousin got me into them.”

That was all it took. They were inseparable from that day on, sharing mix CDs with jagged Sharpie tracklists and flipping through thrift-store racks together after school. Both of them discovered a love for alternative music and a gritty style that made them feel like they belonged, even if the rest of the school didn’t see it that way.

In the library, with the warm, welcoming smell of apple cinnamon always made the two friends refreshed. The young librarian, Ms. Anderson, with her eclectic, vintage style, always made them feel safe while they were eating lunch, and even gifted them biographies of Kurt Cobain.

Anya ate spiced rice with chunks of beef out of a thermos jar, with juicy grapes, while Himari ate onigiri, cooked vegetables, fried meat, and a handful of KitKats from Japan with unique flavors - mocha, strawberry, and raspberry. Himari shared them with no hesitation.

“Y'know, religion fascinates me,” Himari blurted out, fishing out salmon from her bento box with chopsticks.

“I know! People make religion fear mongering too. Like, you'll tell me I'll go to hell and burn cause I don't abide by specific rules? Ironic,” Anya laughed. “Maybe I'll rock out with the demons there.”

Himari choked on her food, trying to stifle a laugh.


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Their new look—torn fishnets, combat boots, and eyeliner smudged like they were trying too hard not to care—didn’t go unnoticed. The mean girls in their grade were ruthless. “Nice Halloween costume,” one would sneer. Boys would laugh at them, calling Anya a “tan poser” and mocking Himari’s accent when she stumbled over an English idiom. They both developed the habit of holding their tears until they made it to the bathroom stalls, sitting in silence as the walls vibrated with muffled gossip.

Every time Himari looked in the mirror each night, clad in just a bra and panties, she sighed at her reflection. She wasn't the beauty standard for a Japanese girl, knowing the mean people at her school would treat her way differently if she was pretty. It wasn't fair. She stretched her monolids, like the kids would do to her to mock her out of spite, mistaking her for being Chinese and even putting on a stereotypical accent.

She pulled her cheeks, like she expected the skin to just… come off. She was trapped in her form. She hesitantly ran her hands over her exposed stomach and legs, taking in her curves and the gentle, flat swell of her breasts. She shakily exhaled again before holding up her middle fingers to herself, muttering ‘fuck you’ under her breath.

One particularly bad day, after PE class, their final period, where they’d both been picked last for teams, they felt like they weren't fit for anything. They couldn't throw a football correctly, missed the hoop every time a game of basketball happened, and always decided to sit on the bleachers.

One Friday night, Anya broke down in Himari’s bedroom. The posters of Babes In Toyland and Radiohead on the walls seemed to watch them as Anya choked out, “Why do we even try? It’s like we’re walking targets.”

Himari handed her a tissue and sighed, her voice shaking. “I don’t know.”

Himari crawled on the bed beside Anya, wrapping her arms around Anya’s waist in a spooning position, laying a gentle kiss on her temple before nuzzling into her neck before sobbing, her throat being constricted with what felt like barbed wire with every choke and cry. They cried themselves to sleep that day.

Their mothers were their saving grace. Anya’s mom, Priya, despite her constant lectures about focusing on school, would sit beside her at night, combing her hair and humming soft Hindi lullabies. She’d remind her, “You’re more than what those kids see, beta.”

Himari’s mom, Yuki, while quieter, was equally supportive. She didn’t fully understand her daughter’s obsession with grunge, but she’d learned to sew patches onto Himari’s thrifted jackets and sometimes even picked out band tees for her at yard sales. “Just be yourself,” she’d tell Himari in Japanese. “The right people will see you someday.”

In the end, surviving middle school wasn’t easy for Anya and Himari. They still cried in bathroom stalls and hid in their bedrooms when it all felt like too much. But they also found comfort in each other, in the music that screamed their anger and sadness, and in the quiet assurance from their mothers that they were stronger than they realized.

Coping with a nightly gas station run, buying snacks and sour slushies, eating them on the front yard curb of Anya's house, a streetlight illuminating on them while they watched sprinklers go off on the front yard of the neighbors house just across. Although they weren't romantically lovers, they held each other close and whispered sweet nothings to each other. ‘I love you’ and ‘my sweet baby’ they would blurt out.

“Girls, come inside for dinner!” Anya's mom gently yelled to them, the dim lighting of the kitchen alerting them. With that, they straightened out their flannels and went inside the house. They were truly friends and knew that seventh grade wouldn't always be a stab in the chest." Continue it by a week rolling around, and a talent show comes around. With Anya pretty intermediate and knowing a plethora songs on guitar, she can sing (she hopes that she can..) and Himari can play bass. They just to recruit a drummer.. during passing period, they notice a fellow seventh grader, Leon, a kid with jet black, long hair. He was always seen sitting in the hallways or skipping P.E, cause God forbid him to he hit in the face with a dodgeball for the 100th time. He didn't care about anyone negative, bluntly. And, they needed a lead guitarist. Anya was just rhythm, but they needed someone for solos. Astrid, an 8th grader, was literally just the female version of Leon, but just a septum in her nose and streaks of deep red adorning her messy hair. Her hands were severely calloused and veiny from playing ever since she was about 8 or 9, and she could most definitely play a perfect solo with a whammy bar. They recruit both of them, and with that, they learn "Master of Puppets" for the talent show.