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Oh Caroline

J

The bottoms of her thighs cling to the scorching worn gray leather seats of her 2010 Toyota Prius. Her green bikini hangs loosely beneath the oversized t-shirt she stole from her dad, featuring a skeleton clutching a beer stein, a logo from some local brewery now damp with salt water and garnished with sand. Her feet are tucked into tattered brown Birkenstocks, aged by the sun and the sea. She grips the steering wheel with one hand and an invisible microphone with the other. She could have taken I-95 home from Hollywood Beach, but that would have been faster. And she has quite the playlist to get through before arriving in Cooper City. She checks her reflection in the rearview mirror; she looks tan. Only burnt in that cute little space on the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks. 

 

J loves going to the beach alone. She prefers it to going with friends, actually. Alone, she can stay for as little or as long as she likes. She can choose whether to settle on the secluded side or to join the leathery-skinned beach frequenters near the boardwalk. She can read, listen to music, swim, tan, walk, and she never feels lonely. It’s her happy place. So every trip home from college naturally features a solo trip to the ocean. And the trip includes the drive home. 

 

Her go-to playlist has altered little since high school. Declan Mckenna, Cage the Elephant, Coin, The Strokes, The 1975. But she’s changed. She’s eighteen now, she feels older, more independent. She feels more like herself. Windows down, wavy hair blowing in the humid suburban South Florida breeze, she sings her favorite songs at the top of her lungs, drumming on the dashboard and dancing at red lights. It doesn’t bother her that she isn’t somewhere cooler, like California. J romanticizes her hometown. She’s nostalgic. 

 

She stops for an iced coffee on the way home and heads straight for the backyard to continue basking in the late-afternoon sun. As she lays by the pool, she plans the night’s Gordon-family outing: a meal at their favorite mediocre Mexican restaurant, Tijuana Flats, and a movie, probably something of the Pixar/DreamWorks genre. She’ll crack jokes through dinner and perfectly quote the night’s movie. She’ll fall asleep next to her mom on the couch.


 

Jojo

I have known Jojo since we were three. Well, that’s when I remember meeting her. It was bedtime, and my room was illuminated by the dim light of a pastel-colored lamp, embellished with a collection of zoo animals: an elephant, a tiger, lion, zebra, and giraffe. I laid ensconced beneath my pastel-colored floral quilt and a hard cover of Margaret Wise Brown’s Goodnight Moon rested by my feet. Dad sat on the edge of my new “big-girl bed” and kissed me goodnight. Sweet dreams, Jojo. She’s been with me ever since. 

 

Jojo doesn’t have an age. She’s every age. She is the youngest when I feel sad. Together, we curl up in bed like pill bugs and rest our heads on Ellie, a baby-pink Elephant, our treasured stuffed childhood friend. When Jojo laughs, she chuckles with the innocence of a child and roars with the seasoned humor of an adult. Sometimes she is older than me. When we descend into deep discussions with Dad, on climate change, the history of the universe, the potential of nuclear war, on poignant literature, she is decades wiser. But when we fall asleep in the car, I walk while Dad carries her inside the house.

 

Jojo is like a shadow. I don’t always see her, but she is always there. Dad is like the evening sun, making her visible on the sidewalk, bringing her out of me. Sometimes all it takes is his presence in a room to transport me back into my childhood bedroom. Under the covers. Next to Jojo.

 

Juj

She checks out her right side profile in the mirror. Then her left. Her left eyeliner wing is always sharper. Whatever, it will be dark. She inches her fluffy black pillow, that doubles as a vanity chair, closer to the mirror — she does her makeup from the floor — and opens her eyes wide as she coats her lashes in mascara. One swipe of highlighter on each cheek and on the bridge and ball of her nose. A glaze of clear lip gloss and a conclusive spritz of perfume. She scrutinizes her work one final time, squinting her painted eyes and running her fingers through her freshly blown-out hair. Looking good. 

 

She pulls out a mysterious wicker basket of black clothing from under her bed. An array of tiny tops that any boy would mistake for being twenty of the same. She chooses a long-sleeve crochet shirt that buttons in the front and pairs it with her favorite baggy blue Levis. She can feel her superiority complex kicking in; she won’t succumb to a bodysuit and leather pants. She steps into her black high-top converse, which have molded to her feet from frequent wear, and grabs her purse that holds her wallet, chapstick, and a film camera. 

 

Juj likes to go out, but she loves to get ready to go out, blasting music while she hyper-focuses on enhancing her features with makeup like an art project. She usually loses interest in actually going to a bar sometime during the process. But she’s already ready, and she loves to dance. She heads downstairs to meet up with her friends for a pre-game. She turns on the disco lights she purchased for her twenty-first birthday and plugs in the banana-shaped neon sign that hangs above her collection of instant coffee and tea. She’s not a big drinker, but she loves to take charge of the music, or “take aux” as she says.

 

It is her last Thursday night in college, and Thursday is the biggest night of the week. Every college student is eager to begin the weekend a night early, to drink and dance in a room full of people they know, surrounded by potential friends or bad decisions. I have been attending parties since my first weekend of college, but Juj appeared during my sophomore year. She was a novel kick of confidence. She is interesting, attractive, and she wants people to crave her presence. She isn’t always that confident, but she is a master at faking it. And she’s fun to be around, at least she’s never been told otherwise. Tonight is her finale, for these people, in this place. I don’t know what will happen to her when I graduate, but I think she will stay with me. Assured, mysterious, cool, Juj.

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