Library

I stare into my bathroom mirror as I remove the mask. For the first time, I will attend high school showing my full face. I need to be beautiful, just like the girls on my TikTok feed. I examine each video, searching for the common thread. A hot pink blush gleams on each girl's cheek. Despite the stark contrast between my pale Irish skin spattered with freckles and that of the sun-kissed influencers, I race to Target to search for the infamous Revlon Insta-Blush which comes in stick form, making it foolproof. Or, so I thought.

"No le pongas demasiada sal!" My mom, anticipating a bitter taste from the soup, alarmed me. Yet curious like a five-year-old, I felt it was my mission to discover the secrets behind the little white container in front of me. Standing still, making noise at a shake, laid the salt. Deciding to empty half the recipient, my mom and I laughed the second I tasted our alphabet soup. Composed of primarily sodium chloride, salt is a staple for food and culture. At the same time, the element is an equal symbol for health, preservation, and connection. Seen time again in history, salt was a compensation for Roman Empire's soldiers, a source of currency for ancient China, and an exchange in the Gulf Coast from the Olmec people.

I am every woman I have ever met. My sister Chloe taught me how to be a girl. I'm not just talking about the endless hours she put into teaching me how to apply blush or braid my hair. I'm talking about the love and compassion she gave me; her tenderness is woven through me like a piece of thread. Now, when I touch my cheek or brush my hair, I feel the love of my sister. We were all sorts of things together: fairies, storytellers, dreamers. But most importantly, we were girls. But then, Chloe went to boarding school. I was only 11, but I had to be brave to live without her, and I was made brave by Chloe, which is to say I was made brave by love.

The morning was a war I could not win with a mane as versatile as mine. On the left side of the quartz battlefield divided in half by my dipping sink lay an array of thick fragrant creams and strong gels to emphasize my natural pattern, moisturize, and eliminate the threat of dryness and frizz; on the other end, cool, sleek metal tools remained ready to heat up and flatten, dizzying sprays of vanilla and lavender aroma ready to defend from heat damage.

Contrary to popular belief, mini-golf is very challenging. The unforgiving, neon green turf and the jagged rock formations send my ball spiraling in the wrong direction and careen straight into the roaring waterfall every time. The irony of my inadequate skills, however, is not lost on my younger sister, who routinely avoids obstacles and sinks her ball straight into the hole. Her embarrassing victory dance follows soon after, much to my own dismay. Notwithstanding my mini-golf shortcomings, I am known as 'golf girl' by my peers and have learned much about myself and the game as the sole girl on my high school's golf team.

75,000 flipped pages. 11,520 packed boxes. 6 school maps. I began measuring my life in flipped pages, packed boxes, and school maps when I was 6. As my family and I flitted between states and coasts for my father's job over the last decade, I shielded myself with fantasy novels. With my head propped on the baseboard near my nightlight and a book held up in front of me by aching arms, I would dance in whimsical forests, fight daring battles, and rule dangerous courts long after dark.