2012 is the year of American Apparel crop tops and obsidian disco pants, the nylon tricot clinging to my ever-shrinking waist as I thumb through a stack of one- and five-dollar bills to estimate what treasures my summer chores will allot me this time. My parents suggested a part-time job to teach me responsibility, but really, it is to support my shopping habit. I make my mother drive me to Citadel Outlets in bumper-to-bumper traffic, sensing that today could be the day I can finally get an item from American Apparel’s coveted chiffon collection. My hair, thin at the ends because I refuse to cut it, skirts my back pockets, adhering to the bare skin of my shoulders as I shift it to one side.
Satisfied with the amount of cash I managed to save, I scroll through my Amaro-filtered Instagram feed, wondering if I will ever come close to emulating the girls I envy on social media. I pull down the sun visor to check if my winged eyeliner has faded in the heat of the Southern Californian summer, noticing flecks of waterproof mascara dotting my cheeks like black glitter. Self-consciously, I grate the skin from my lips through my teeth and apply my favorite Burt’s Bees chapstick. Even without makeup, I am often told that I look mature for my age. I take this remark as the highest compliment, desperate to convince others that I am older than my sixteen years.
I am reveling in my newfound sensuality and the freedom of the Internet, discovering that I too can become a version of Lana Del Rey by photographing myself in an Urban Outfitters flower crown with a caption ripped from the lyrics of “Born to Die”—the melody that carries me through the lonely halls of high school to evening bonfires at Huntington Beach, where embers sear holes in my brand new skinny jeans. I play Del Rey’s music loudly in my headphones most nights, my much older sister having grown tired of hearing me belt out “This Is What Makes Us Girls” from the shower.
This summer, I have been basking in the receipt of my acceptance into Mr. Jeffries’ honors English class, where I hear that he picks favorites, and I feel destined to become one because he called me “artsy” after meeting me. I don’t know this yet, but this class will change the trajectory of my adolescent life and lead me to pursue a career in writing as an adult. When I grow tired of scrolling through Tumblr on one golden afternoon, I find myself daydreaming about his rotund frame and easy smile, the melodious voice that can convey the harshest criticism in the sweetest tone.
I have been captive so long in my suburban existence, so my newfound addiction to social media provides a perfect respite. I spend hours curating my perfect Tumblr page, even slipping in a few of my poems between the hundreds of images of hazel eyes, high-waisted shorts, and Doc Martens. I post MacBook Photobooth captures of myself in my new American Apparel chiffon blouse, hoping that strangers might compliment my style. My poems receive a few Notes, but my photos go unacknowledged, and despite the seeming rejection, I am temporarily satiated by the resonance of my words.
A few weeks before summer ends, I interview for a job at a popular teen retail store and dial the number a couple of days later to ask if they want to hire me after all, which they do, since no one else who applied bothered to follow up. I meet my manager, John, who is ten years my senior and looks like a less handsome Bradley Soileau. We work late shifts together often. Despite initial protests, he tells me that he doesn’t mind that I’m a teenager, and I think it’s really cool that someone in their twenties finds me attractive.
My father and I, not yet estranged, spend our final summer evenings people-watching at Disneyland, beneath the marigold and vermilion sky as a lone star attempts to make itself known against the impenetrable haze, the wan glow persisting despite the fireworks and smoke and light pollution. I wear the denim jacket I hand-studded, the way Dad taught me to when I told him I wanted clothes like the girls I saw on Lookbook.nu.
2012 is the year I feel closest to my dad, a brief period bookmarked by the two times he was caught cheating on my mother, with the second affair ending our relationship as it once was for good. I hug my father tonight, not knowing that it will be one of the last times I recall us sharing authentic physical affection in the years to come. We divide a chocolate chip cookie between us, and he tells me about how equally confusing his own adolescence had been, even though I have not revealed much about my waning friendships or curious taste in men.
With sticky fingers, I open the car door and ask my dad to play Grouplove’s debut album. He especially likes “Tongue-Tied,” and we sing along as we take the long way home.
I text John after midnight, and he tells me I am the most beautiful girl he has ever seen. My parents don’t know this, but John and I have begun a physical relationship in the stockroom of my workplace. I play “Video Games” one night in his baby blue Toyota after hours, and he tells me he prefers metal.
School is about to start, and I have irrevocably changed this summer, no longer the girl with the clear mascara and Hollister button-downs, not inexperienced or nerdy, or as I was called in early adolescence, a real weirdo. I look at my schedule for my junior year, hoping that the girls who bullied me before will notice my new appearance and leave me alone.
John gets fired when we’re caught as the first autumn leaves materialize, and I am called a “victim” by my other coworkers, but I don’t quite understand why. I expect to feel shame, but I do not, so I return to work the next day because my paycheck allows me to stock up on American Apparel and vintage Guess shorts and become the girl I’ve always wanted to be. I feel lucky because I’m in California, which means it’s unseasonably warm, so I wear my summer clothes into the fall and match my Tumblr to my newly sunny disposition. Summer forever, reads a flashing GIF, reblog.
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Taylor Harrison (she/her) is a writer and photographer of Mexican, Syrian, and Polish descent. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in P.O. BOX OUTER SPACE, Cosmic Daffodil, Thought Catalog, The Opal Club, the literary journal Women’s Studies, and ROAR Magazine. She holds a Master of Arts in English from Claremont Graduate University, where she specialized in modern American women's literature. You can learn more about Taylor by following her Instagram account, @tharrisonwriting.