face.
Calla closes her eyes and lets the water run down her face and disappear in a spiral into the sink, along with memories of her impostor that she had sworn to put aside, at least for today. She is not going to let the person in the mirror ruin what would soon to be the best Valentine’s of her life. She waits before swiping the cream-colored concealer wand, and ultimately decides to turn away from the mirror.
It is six o’clock. Calla slips on the crewneck sweater, hidden securely in the nooks and crannies of her underwear drawer. She had definitely learned her lesson. Running her fingers through her freshly brushed hair, she turns to the window’s reflection as a makeshift mirror instead. She had always been fond of how the dual view of her bedroom and the outside world came together at a certain angle in the window, distorting her own face and masking it with shades of the night sky. As she presses her nose against the cool glass, a quick tap on the windowsill shocks her out of her stupor. Looking into the window again, the face she sees isn’t her own, but it isn’t her impostor’s, either. She allows a grin to surface as she opens the window enough for a gloved hand to lift it open, and makes room for Zenia on her bed.
“Hey, you.” Zenia’s light voice, still partially muffled behind the glass, reaches Calla’s ears, already making her feel lightheaded. “Hey, yourself.” They sit on the bed and wordlessly embrace, sharing each other’s warmth without a single sound. Zenia murmurs, focused on Calla’s brushed hair and face masked with concealer, “You dressed up today.” “Yeah, I guess I did,” Calla stammers, caught off guard. Zenia smiles softly, moving closer. “You know you didn’t have to.” “I know.” Calla’s feelings of being scrutinized are short-lived as she moves closer as well, closing the gap between the two. “They’ll be home soon,” she mutters, whispering into Zenia’s neck. “There’s no way your parents can finish a large fettuccini alfredo that quickly. Knowing them, we have at least thirty minutes to ourselves. So might as well make the most out of it.” Zenia beams, radiating confidence and affection. “Already one step ahead of you.” Calla mischievously grins, and before Zenia can even question it, she is ambushed in a bear hug tight enough to break her ribs—not that Zenia is complaining, of course. And as the two lay together, limbs and hearts intertwined, the full-length mirror resting against the opposite wall is finally forgotten.
No two generations are the same, but each is informed by the ones that have come before. In order to secure a brighter future, we must strive to create a society of inclusion and tolerance by sharing experiences with those around us.
Man feeding a tiger, man drinking a Slurpee, man on a motorcycle, man holding a gun—swipe left.
Man cradling a guitar—swipe right.
Man holding freshly baked bread—swipe right and it’s a match!
Calla slinks into my room and I notice she has that mischievous glint in her eye.
“What are you up to?” I ask her reflection in the mirror, as I am too caught up in trying to shove a silver hoop into my hot, pulsating lobe.
I can sense that she has something to say but is just dithering. When I turn around I notice that her eyes are studying my tacky snow globe, which imprisons a miniature Taj Mahal. She is deliberately avoiding my quizzical glance.
“Why are you so dressed up, Melody?” she asks, and now it is my turn to squirm.
I am still on the fence about dating apps. Growing up, I had to look no further than the schoolyard or library to get my kicks. Depressingly, now, in my mid-twenties, I look to my phone to find love.
“Got a date,” I say nonchalantly while clamping my spider eyelashes with a curler.
Calla brightens. “Who is he?”
She could take for granted it was the guy who had the pleasure of seeing me later. It was in that moment I realized I could not always presume the same for her. As of a week ago this was a new revelation for my parents, but I had an inkling. I was caught in the crossfire.
“Did you know about Calla and Zenia?” my parents demanded.
“I don’t understand why they are so shocked,” Calla whimpered, puffy-eyed, following their confrontation.
“Oh, just some guy from Tinder,” I say, then add, “It’s grim out there in the dating world. Take it from your wizened older sister, you’re lucky to have found someone you genuinely like and who likes you back.”
I notice her flinch for a second. It is all still so new and scary.
“Anyway . . . what have you planned?”
Calla puffs out her cheeks and shrugs.
“It’s Valentine’s Day—you better be doing something with Zenia! Mom and Dad mentioned that they are going to that fancy new French restaurant downtown, so they’ll be out late.”
Calla smiles, appreciatively.
“Now get out so I can put on this little black dress,” I say, closing the door with a wink.
MAGGIE CHEN
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: High School for Health Professions and Human Services
BORN: Manhattan, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: My meetings with my mentor, Hannah, are really enjoyable. Every week, I anticipate our sessions, as not only do I have someone to talk to about my life, but also she gives me the biggest support in starting my novel! So far, my favorite meeting was when Hannah took me to her own favorite place to eat and talk about my work: Molly’s Cupcakes. Because we go to different places, hang out together, and get to sit and talk about our progress, I’m really grateful to have been able to work with Hannah this year.
HANNAH NESBAT
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Marketing Coordinator, Penguin Random House
BORN: Belmont, CA
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Where we meet: Brooklyn Roasting Company, one hour before closing, often their last customers of the day; Starbucks, for a late-afternoon coffee (me) or a Frappuccino (Maggie); Molly’s Cupcakes; the Chobani café. What we write: college essays, the first fifteen pages (!) of a novel (Maggie); feedback, free-write exercises (me). What we bond over: YA books and specifically swoony boys
