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.

I remember being surprised at how weak my arm felt, as if I was holding a dumbbell instead of a microphone. Standing in front of all of my high school classmates at our weekly Monday Meeting, I could feel my heartbeat in my ears as I studied the small silver holes in the head of the microphone and momentarily wished I was small enough to fit into one of them and disappear.

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.

Standing in front of the kitchen counter, my small hands are placed on the cool granite top and my eyes rest on the empty bowl set out in front of me. On one side lies a pack of masa harina and on the other, a pitcher filled with water. Tortillas are considered to be somewhat of a staple food in Guatemala and in Central American cuisines. Whenever my mom asks me to make tortillas, I groan internally; not because I dislike tortillas, but because I simply cannot make them. What should come naturally as a Guatemalan native is foreign to my small hands. My hands are unable to form the perfectly sized circles because they...

I could still hear her words, the words my teacher said as she handed me the packet, “This is a challenge. But I think you’re up for it.” I held the math packet in my hand. On the cover, the title ‘Mission Possible!’ screamed at me. I could feel my fingers tingling, and the goosebumps rolling up my arms. I stared at the black italicized letters of the title as I walked home. They seemed to stare back, alluding to the mysteries that lay underneath them. As soon as I got home, I ran to the top bunk where I slept, grabbed a pencil, and signed a mental contract with the packet: “I, Zerubabel, promise...

My eyes widen. “It’s all Greek to me,” I whisper under my breath. Sure enough, The Apology by Plato is in Greek. My eyes dart across the page, looking for a word or phrase to grasp onto. Unable to find a familiar word, I take a deep breath. The Greek letters jumble into incoherent words and I am left to the mercy of an incomplete translation. I shake my head, unsure of what to do next. My eyes drag from one word to another, heavy with defeat. Upon the sixth word, however, they stop. My initial scan of the text left me negligent of a simple word meaning “number.” Passion overwhelms my senses. “Number” becomes...