The belles of junior high

Right AWAY YOU can tell something is up. There’s a red-haired girl in a “Follow Jesus” T-shirt and little else, sitting on the kitchen island, having her toenails carefully painted by her older sister. I don’t know when this little girl is going to Follow Jesus. But it won’t be right away. It’d totally mess up her nails.

“Ooooo, tickles,” the little girl says.

“Hold still,” orders her sister.

When we put in the island, we knew it could be used for a lot of great things. It would give us extra room to make a salad. Or be a good place to huddle around a bottle of Merlot and grumble about bad movies or corporate greed.

But we never expected it to be used for religion and nail care. It’s probably just a matter of time before we’re using it for baptisms and massages.

“Do you need to shower?” my wife asks.

“Constantly,” I say.

It is a big day for our little family. In this season of pomp and circumstance, we are heading off to the eighth-grade graduation. Grandparents will be there. Photographers from the local paper. They’ll let overflow parking use the softball fields. You know it’s a big event when they let them park a Tahoe on the pitcher’s mound.

But first, we must get there.

“Five minutes!” someone shouts.

“How long?”

“Four minutes!”

Time flies when you’re having sons. But daughters grow up even faster. At the ceremony, they parade out like Vogue models, teetering on their brand-new high heels. What they do is teeter, nearly fall, catch themselves, then spot a friend and wave excitedly, nearly tipping over again. It is a lot like watching deer walk for the very first time.

The boys, meanwhile, follow behind, hands in their pockets, bent at 30-degree angles. Poor guys. Some look like characters from a “Zits” comic strip. Gangly. Awkward. Faintly prehistoric.

It’s not a fair life, being an eighth-grade boy. It’s a little like being a Taurus on a track full of Corvettes. The girls are lapping you. Meanwhile, hair is trying to grow on your chin. One hair.

“Please remain standing,” someone at the podium says.

This is exactly why I quit going to church. Every time I am halfway to sitting down, I discover that really what I’m supposed to do is remain standing. So I reverse direction and start to stand. By then, everyone else is sitting.

“And now to present the Rotary Club award ... “

It’s been a big couple of weeks for us. Two Saturdays ago, our lovely older daughter graduated from college.

Then, last week, while stretching for my morning run, a nice lady in a print dress approached me in front of the church.

“I’ve got an offer for you,” she said, and right away I was interested.

She was a lovely lady of about 60, which I find to be a woman’s perfect age. Not too young, not too old. Show me a woman of 60, and I’ll show you a woman of great character and remarkable beauty. It’s just too bad they can’t stay 60 forever.

“Have you ever thought about joining the Kiwanis?” she asked.

She explained that her particular chapter is a lot of fun. They are considered “the singing Kiwanis.” They meet every Wednesday.

“Think about it,” the nice lady said.

“I will,” I promised.

“Here’s my number,” she said.

Now, we cap off this run of good fortune with this: the eighth-grade graduation. In my eyes, there are far too many graduation ceremonies. But it’s hard not to love this one. Everyone in town is here. The baby stands on my knee with his hard shoe, right at that spot where the tendon meets the bone.

“And now for the presentation of the eighth-grade class ...” the principal says.

Somewhere down there is my little girl, her toenails done just so, her hair in a halo. Seems like just yesterday she was in seventh grade. Before that, I don’t remember her that much. I have faint recollections of dressing her for preschool. Of teaching her to whistle. Of smoothing out her softball swing. Other than that, we haven’t really spent a lot of time together.

“Where they going?” I say.

Suddenly, the graduates are exiting the field. The band is playing “Anchors Aweigh.” The audience is clapping along to the music.

“Anchors Aweigh”? I ask my buddy Bill as the ceremony ends.

“They must be shipping out,” he explains.

Right before my eyes, they are being shipped out. Not a bad thing to do with teenagers, when you think about it. Bring ‘em back in four or five years, when they can speak to us in a civil tone. Bring ‘em back when they can parallel park.

But no such luck. Turns out they are only headed off to the gym, for pictures and family hugs.

They’re not sailing off anywhere, these golden kids of the junior high. At least not yet.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.