Teenage Dream

We’re rocking the same nail lacquer on our toes.

Ordering the same thing for lunch.

Telling stories with the same spastic limbs.

Ending sentences with the same last-word emphasis.

She shows me her car, her high school, the boutique where she works weekends.

We find ourselves gushing over statement tees and scoffing in unison at the spandex.

By the time we duck into a photo booth, she seems like someone with whom I’ve exchanged a thousand postcards and emails.

Over afternoon coffee, we swap stories about parents and besties and our three-letter nicknames.

At dusk, I meet her lovely sisters and adorably shy 8-foot boyfriend.

By sunset, I’m climbing the stairs of the home where she’s spent her teenage years.

I take a step into her bedroom—and halt.

The color scheme, the giant photo collage, the logo shopping bags:

This.

 Is.

 My.

High.

School.

Room.

I’ve decorated seven bedrooms since, but it’s this one I remember best.

She shows me her closet organized by color and points out pictures of her late hamster.

In this moment, in this room: I feel exactly her age.

And exactly twice her age.

The paradox continues into the night: when I joyfully reunite with her parents, when I join the hysterics of dinner with 12 of her friends, and finally, when we pull on twin sets of pajamas and fall asleep discussing the merits of Justin Beiber’s documentary.