Sophie Lynne Creations

Chloe plopped down at the sticky cafeteria table, a chorus of lunchboxes unzipping around her. She and her small group of girl friends had been close since first grade. They’ve graduated from Lunchables to turkey sandwiches together, always reuniting at lunch period each day. Lunch time for girls, especially in middle school, is 25 exciting minutes of rapid-fire updates and unsupervised phone time. Chloe got her first phone a few months earlier– glittery case and all. Her mom had finally caved after Chloe made a Google Slides presentation highlighting some safety stats about having a phone as a “young woman.” Most of her camera roll was slowly being filled up by goofy pictures of her parents, brother, and dogs. 

Stuffing the corner of a PB & J in her metal-filled mouth, she clicked on the “Mom” album on her phone and flipped it around towards her friends. 

Spitting crumbs, she asked, “Guys, do I look more like my mom or my dad?” She swiped between pictures of her parents, the three of them all brown-haired, white, and 5’5’’. 

“I don’t know girl, both,” she got in reply, as her friends went back to unpacking a certain boy’s hallway eye-contact. And what felt like not one minute later, the bell rang. 

On the bus ride home, Chloe couldn’t help but pull up her parents’ pictures again. She let her head bump against the cool glass of the window, and zoomed in on her dad’s nose. She squinted one eye, then the other; she held the phone close and then far. Then she felt stupid about her curiosity, opened Spotify, and shut her eyes until she recognized the bumps of Lynn Lane.

Opening the kitchen door as the clock hit 3pm, her two fluff-ball dogs ran toward her and filled her heart to the brim. Her brother Jake lay on the leather couch around the corner, watching ESPN highlights and crushing apples in peanut butter. Her mom bustled by in heels that threatened to pierce the wood floors. 

“Hi honey!” Chloe’s mom had a way of sing-songing like Snow White that made Chloe warm, while also being aware that her Chloe-Eleanor-watch-your-mouth stare was the meanest in town. 

Her dad came flying around the corner and did a little strut down the red runner, “Chloeeeeee girlllllll how was your day?” She rolled her eyes at his over-the-top-ness but knew that even if his whole world was on fire, he’d still look to make her laugh. It was just a Tuesday, nothing special. Sinking into the leather couch, she stole an apple and a peanut butter dip from Jake; his lack of complaint plus a fist bump was his version of “how was your day.” So she spent the next hour watching ESPN highlights horizontally. 

As the Tuesday trudged on, the Jones household ebbed and flowed with work and play, smiles and stressors. Her mom cooked dinner and her dad did the dishes. Her mom’s heels would always stay on while she cooked, clambering around in nylons and necklaces and a blazer. But her dad’s pants would sag while he did the dishes, an unfastened belt making him a sort of Long Island-raised, Jewish businessman-turned-rapper. As he’d throw around puns, her mom would roll her eyes in the same way Chloe would, rolling in sockets of nothing but appreciation and admiration.

And Jake would work on math, and Chloe would read, and her mom would clean, and her dad would swat flies with dish rags. And the Tuesday would feel as normal and happy as Tuesdays come, backlit with a curiosity of whether she sat with people who were closer to strangers or to pieces of her very self.