sticky sugar syrup

and flushed cheeks in the backseats of cars

Beads of sweat dripped down the glass forming a ring on the diner table, the cherry on her chocolate milkshake slowly disappearing into the whipped cream as she sipped.

It had been twenty years since I’d seen her. She hadn’t changed one bit. I knew she wouldn’t have.

Light wash bell bottom jeans, white sketchers smeared with grass and summer dirt, and a graphic tee from Old Navy. The ends of her hair curled behind her ear, bits of chocolate lining the corners of her mouth. Her feet barely touched the black and white tiles of the diner as she swung them back and forth, the heel of her sneaker hitting the booth and missing my shins entirely.

Our waitress joined us, notepad in tow, a smile of recognition on her face.

“Grilled cheese with tomato?” I asked the twelve year old girl sitting across from me. She nodded.

Our waitress jotted down some scribbles as she looked at me, her eyebrows raised over the frames of her glasses.

“Better make that two” I told her.

“See?” She called back to the line cook. “Nothing has changed.”

I stirred my own chocolate milkshake, the whipped cream forming a gradient in the glass and I fished the cherry from beneath the surface. As I plucked the fruit from the stem, she finally spoke.

“Your hair looks different.” she said.

And it was different. Compared to the bob we were always used to, my hair was a lot longer. My natural curls fell in tendrils down my shoulders, my dirty blonde roots fully grown out to the middle of my head indicating a harsh line that marked the start of an at home dye job — a chocolate-ish brown after a failed attempt at red last summer.

I saw her eyes float up, noting the small cluster of grays on my right side. I braced for the impact of a joke, but she kept all of her comments to herself. I’m not sure why I was surprised. Twelve year old me was always polite.

I knew she had a lot of questions, I just didn’t know where to begin because I can’t remember exactly when we lost touch.

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When I got lost

When I let go of pink bubble gum, razor scooters and my digital camera

When I traded my fuzzy journals and glitter pens for the hands of a boy, knee pads for mini skirts

Lip gloss

When summer was

Ice cream dripping down arms and licking sprinkles off the backs of our hands and the backs of our thighs sticking to plastic chairs

The fireworks

Blue tongues caught between cold lips, the irritation hiding in the corners of our mouths, the plastic wrapper from icys

Sticky sugar syrup

Grass stains, our knees scraped and bruising

Mood rings and friendship bracelets, pinkies linked with promises

The chipping of crackle nail polish and the dots of light from fireflies

We were pink and purple construction paper rings

Our days often fueled by the creativity that came in waves so fast and overwhelming that we would have to pause to catch our breath, our heads breaking the surface

The marble notebooks littered with stickers, filled to the brim with ideas; stories written in pens with charms and feathers, dancing

When I traded fearlessness with flushed cheeks in the backseats of cars

Fun hair clips for condoms and bundles of nerves

The stares that burned holes in my skin

The whispers of faceless masses

And when I started to listen to them

The shame that followed, the dust that gathered

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She left the crust on her plate, as I knew she would and mine half eaten, the remnants of the chocolate milkshake sitting at the bottom of the glass.

She reached into her periwinkle Jansport backpack and pulled out a marble composition notebook, littered with stickers.

“Do you wanna hear my idea?” she asked in earnest, as she took out a mechanical pencil.

I fumbled in my bag, and found my own marble composition notebook from my leather backpack, a purple pen clipped onto the top.

“Can I share mine after?” I asked.

She lightly kicked my foot under the table, a smile making its way across her face.

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I’ve been chasing the high of being twelve since I turned thirteen without ever fully realizing it.

When I was twelve, I was courageous. I was creative, unapologetic, and I made it everyone’s problem. I walked to the beat of my own drum and celebrated my individuality without a second thought. I was as sure of myself as a twelve-year-old could be within the confines of rules and a curfew.

I knew the sound of my own voice.

I’m not entirely sure when I lost touch with that version of me.

I turn thirty-three this month and I’m meeting myself in a season of transformation. Somewhere between getting lost and starting over, I’ve found myself becoming someone new in the vein of finding my way back to someone familiar.

Substack helped me rediscover my voice, and with that voice came the confidence I was deeply missing. Before I knew it, I became confident enough to finally pursue the creative life I’ve always wanted.

I’ve been heavily inspired by daelyn’s post (please go read it!) about having a middle school summer. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

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Because lately, I’ve started to feel the way I felt at twelve.

Back then, freedom looked like waking up early and deciding which creative project I’d tackle that day. It looked like no homework, bodega trips and mosquito bites, sleepovers with my friends, and staying up into the wee hours of the morning only to wake up a short few hours later, ready and willing to do the same thing all over again.

The only things that mattered to me were my projects and my girlfriends, and that’s how I want this summer to feel.

And what does that look like for me?

Saying yes to things when I’m invited. Parties, BBQs, sleepovers, coffee with a friend.

Staying off my phone as much as possible. That could be picnics in the park to read and journal or do other various analog activities (sudoku, puzzles, crosswords). It’ll definitely be multiple summer craft projects — clay, paint, jewelry and lanyard keychain making, collages, bedazzling, coloring, dare I learn how to crochet?

But the most important element of all of this, for me, is to create without fear and to create more than I consume.

This summer, I want to be fearless, innovative, and certain of myself.

Like I’m twelve again.

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And maybe your middle school summer doesn’t look anything like mine.

Maybe it smells like chlorine and holding your breath under water, covered in sand and tan lines. Maybe it’s skateboards and bikes, the smell of concrete and handball courts. Trips to the thrift store hunting for vinyls, or comic books. Maybe it’s quiet afternoons in the local library or roaming mall food courts.

Whatever it looks like, I hope you make room for it.

I hope you let yourself be curious.

I hope you let yourself be earnest.

And I hope you spend this summer creating more than you consume.

With love,
Stephanie

If my writing has resonated with you, if it’s given you language for something you couldn’t name, or helped you feel seen — supporting me here is a way to sustain that work. Thank you for being here, in whichever that way you are <3