Pink lemonade doesn’t taste better than plain lemonade;

It’s more refined and delicate.

It is sweeter than the original lemonade,

Like candy from a little boardwalk shop that you’d beg your parents for,

The shop that you can smell all the way from the ocean.

It’s more expensive than candy should be, but you’d make it last for weeks and weeks just to remember your beach trip.

I try not to think about that part, though,

I heard we’re cutting sugar for the summer.

It’s also not as sour as plain lemonade.

When it’s pink, nobody scrunches their face as they take a sip.

Instead they’re soothed, comforted.

Their lips don’t pucker and their eyes don’t water.

But pink lemonade doesn’t taste better than plain lemonade.

It’s prettier, more feminine.

It can match my Barbie or strawberry girl or jelly donut makeup,

Whatever we’re calling pink these days.

It looks cute in my hand next to my gold jewelry,

They compliment each other without blending together.

Pink lemonade stands out with it’s fun vibrant color,

But it isn’t aggressive or alarming,

Like the confident girl at the waterfront bar who gets all of her drinks for free.

Her crop top is a light color instead of a dark one and she has wedges instead of heals;

She’s original enough to get attention but wouldn’t dare to be a different size or shape than the tried and true,

Because pink lemonade doesn’t really taste better than plain lemonade.

Yet for some reason, I try to order it every time.

“I need a day where I can just do nothing,” I say to my lab partner. We’ve been working nonstop on this research for months, and we could use a break.

But we both know that we wouldn’t actually use a day off to do nothing. I need a day to do all of the things that go into being a functioning human. I’ve been eating out for every meal, my apartment is a mess, I can’t remember the last time I hung out with friends.

Nothing has been defined by some philosophers as “the absence of something.” I’m trying to imagine what my life would look like in the absence of my lab. What would I do?

On day one, I would sleep until noon. I would stay in bed and scroll through Pinterest, saving beautiful pictures and delicious recipes. I would drive to my local coffee shop, wearing an outfit that definitely does not follow the lab safety rules, and order a sugary drink and a pastry. While enjoying my food, I would sit there and read a good book. It would be a fiction book, for once, not some biochemistry journal. My laptop would be closed for the entire day. When I felt ready, I would go back home, order a pizza, and make myself a bubble bath and a glass of wine, then watch mindless tv shows until I fell asleep.

On day two, I would return to Pinterest. I would open all of the recipes I’ve saved, buy their ingredients, and cook myself a meal. A good meal. Not a fast food meal, or one from the university faculty cafeteria. After I would wash my dishes, wash the sink, wash the kitchen counter. I would finally live in a clean space.

By the end of week one, I would have started a few artistic hobbies, maybe painting or writing poetry. I would be spending more time outside, going on walks and listening to music. Maybe I would have plans with my friends.

By the end of month one, I would have traveled to new places. I’ve seen corners of the world I never had the time to visit. I would need a companion for this, so I probably adopted a pet.

By the end of year one, I would have allowed myself to actually feel my emotions. I allow my brain to go into deep thought. I wonder about how things work, why things work. I have regained my interest in learning. There’s so much to know! So much to figure out!

One year and one day into the absence of responsibilities, I will find myself back in a lab, trying to uncover the secrets of the world.

I hear a man whistle behind me, setting my eye roll into motion. This is not what I had intended to do today. My plans involved sitting on a rock while the waves crashed behind me, inhaling the soft salt air so my voice could fill its space. But still, I would never pass up an opportunity like this.

I turn around, my long hair following behind me as it floats on the white sea foam, and I see the ship. The scene is extremely predictable. A group of men with long, straggly hair and untrimmed beards are dancing around to some song about the sea. It’s ironic; these old folk songs are pretty much always warning them about the dangers in the ocean, yet they choose to ignore these messages.

“Come on, girl! Give us a smile!” one of them says. I wait a second to let their excitement build before showing them my pearly-white teeth and giving them a little wave. This never fails to fill me with satisfaction, as all of the men on board are either missing teeth or missing limbs.

They applaud me and begin to call me closer. I see them clapping each other on the back and making loud, incompetent comments about my physical beauty. While this was exactly the goal, I can’t help but wonder if anything goes through their heads at all. The comments they make are sexual in nature, but even the most surface-level knowledge of marine biology combined with half a second of critical thinking would make them realize how impossible that is.

I start to do long dolphin dives towards them, the moonlight making the water on my skin glisten, while my tail glistens all on its own. As I approach the boat, the calming aroma of salt becomes mildew and rotting wood. They have a topless member of my species carved out of stone perched to the front of their boat, a reminder of why this plan works every time.

They scurry to the edge of the boat, where a fishing net hangs above them to fill me with a quiet rage. I wave at them again, this time to ask them to join me in the water. There is a hesitation, but their ignorant smiles are far more powerful, so I’m not worried about my success.

I begin to sing; the men are helpless. My voice puts them in a trance and the smell of body odor and booze gets closer and closer. They stare longingly at my figure, probably wishing I resembled the carving on the boat just a little more. They are so distracted that they don’t notice my once perfect teeth growing longer and sharper, with my fingernails following their lead. I give them the privilege of hearing my perfect laugh as their last sound of life.

“Do you like him?” they giggled.

“Yes,” I said. I liked to play with my friend after school.

“So is he your boyfriend?”

I told everyone I’d never want a boyfriend.

I screamed it with my whole chest.

They kept insisting that I’d change my mind when I’m older.

I couldn’t understand why they were so obsessed with taking the play out of playdates.

Playing with building blocks was equated to falling in love.

Every time our moms took us to the playground it was supposed to be an evening of romance.

We disappointed everyone when snack time wasn’t a candlelit dinner.

I was even told that my communion dress looked like a wedding gown.

Eventually I took my building blocks and built a wall around myself.

Its purpose was to guard me from anything romantic; I just wanted to play with my friends safely from inside.

We truly were experts at building blocks; he could be an engineer with that type of talent.

I learned to build my wall to be sturdier than the Hoover Dam.

It was a good system for a while; I would lower the drawbridge for anybody that I’d want to spend time with.

But romance was never allowed through.

Affection was never allowed through.

Wanting to be desired by someone was never allowed through.

I sometimes wanted to deconstruct it, but I knew that an “I told you so,” was waiting on the other side.

The wall got so big that I couldn’t tell if anyone was even trying to get through anymore.

I’m sure they haven’t.

And today I’m sure nobody does.

I’m surrounded by people without walls and they seem happy.

But if they really didn’t want me to hide in here then they shouldn’t have asked a toddler about her love life.

How was I supposed to understand what I was building?

It’s becoming increasingly lonely in here.

I wish I could dismantle the wall,

To let someone in

To let someone hold me

To call me beautiful

To ask me about my day and then tell me about theirs

I want to break my wall

To shatter it to pieces

To experience love for the first time

Feel like a schoolgirl with a crush on the boy at the desk next to hers

Like a prepubescent girl innocently and awkwardly slow dancing with a boy an entire arm’s length away at the school dance

Like a teenager wearing her boyfriend’s varsity jacket at the football game on a cold fall night; he asks her to homecoming with poster board and markers after the game.

Like a college student dating the first boy from outside of her hometown, not having to worry about her parent’s prying eyes; they have to wait until after 2am to see each other so the RA doesn't catch them.

But the wall is already built.

I lost the key to unlock the floodgates.

I forgot how to separate the blocks from one another

And I don’t think anyone on Earth is strong enough to break them.

I got a golden retriever puppy about four months ago, or at least I thought I did. I know, I know, "adopt don't shop," and everything. But have you seen golden retriever puppies?

After having her for this long, I'm not entirely sure I got a dog. Maybe they gave me something like a shark or a dinosaur. My arms are covered in scratches, my furniture is covered in bite marks, and my floors are covered in fur.

But her face. Her little face. With her long tongue and her oversized ears (which are the softest things I've ever felt). She has these big eyes that can make you melt.

So I forgive the wounds and the destroyed house. Scratches can heal, furniture can be fixed, floors can be vacuumed.

I will say, though, golden retrievers are very well named. They do, in fact, retrieve. They retrieve sticks from the yard, leaves from the bushes, even dirt from the flower pots! They will retrieve all of these things and give them to you as a present! How sweet!

There’s something so intimidating about returning to writing after a hiatus. Over the years I’ve had so many thoughts and ideas, so many instances where I’d say to myself, “this would make a great piece, I need to write this down.” I’ve had to push those ideas into the corners of my brain. Yet for some reason, I want this little memoir to be better than the things I’ve written in the past, even though I’ve been out of practice since the start of my marriage.

My husband hated this hobby of mine. When we were dating, he saw it as more of a distraction for me; I would sit outside in a cute little sundress, with my pink notebook and a pen with a flower on the end. At night I would take my pink notebook over to the typewriter and let my long, painted nails tap away. It was something for me to do while he was at “work,” that is, when he was playing around on GarageBand. But, as time went on, I was getting publications and paychecks, while no musicians wanted to work with his “original sounds,” (the premade noises that come free with the installation arranged in a random order).

He decided that the reason why he wasn’t able to come up with anything amazing is because I don’t support him enough. I should be out working a real job, not just sitting around writing all day, so we could afford the premium GarageBand noises and better internet for him to get no emails faster. I should also be cooking for him, the processed food we’ve been eating is definitely stunting his creativity. And obviously I need to be doing his chores so he has time to focus.

One thing led to another, and suddenly I was living a life where it was impossible for me to express myself. My pink notebook was fed to the fireplace and the typewriter, this typewriter, was put in my husband's office, where his watchful eye constantly was. I don’t exactly know how it all happened, but I’ll make sure to ask my case worker at my next session.

The important thing is, I have my typewriter back, and I’m eager to get started. But do I even know how to write anymore? The fireplace ate my old ideas, and I’ve spent the last few years suppressing all of my new ones. I’m worried that I’ve lost my connection to the words, to the world, to this typewriter. It’s impossible to revive something when it’s been burned into ashes.

But the typewriter reassures me. As I sit here, tapping away with my short, bare nails, it’s talking to me, cheering me on. The faster I type, the louder it becomes. I may not remember every idea I’ve had that was lost, but my typewriter remembers me. It hugs my fingers in a way that feels like a lifelong friend embracing me.

I can’t wait to talk to my old friend about everything that went on, about my husband’s unfair treatment, about how I’ve missed them.

I’m currently sitting in the backseat of my dad’s truck. So far, we’ve driven from the Jersey Shore to Trenton. Trenton has never felt like New Jersey to me. It’s filled with factories, bridges, and people from Pennsylvania. Is this what people think of when they think of New Jersey? Or do they think of that tv show starring a family from New York?

Neither of these places are what I consider to be home. Yes I grew up at “The Shore,” but it’s so much different than what is showcased. The correct beaches, MY beaches, are calm and beautiful. There is absolutely nothing in this world that compares to a spontaneous drive to a shore town with friends in the middle of the night, leaving your shoes on the boardwalk, and sprinting all along the sand to the water.

Because of the pandemic, people from New York and Pennsylvania are moving into their “shore houses,” previously only used in the summer, full-time. I get a little bit defensive about this. Why should you get to enjoy the local privileges? You clog up the roads, litter all over the beaches, and take advantage of the off-season prices of local businesses.

I just realized how misleading this could be. I’m not necessarily a “beach person.” While I love the shore towns, and the beach at night is such an amazing experience, the actual summer beach days with all of the tourists there is definitely not for me. Sand gets everywhere. Sunburn is unavoidable. People are loud and messy.

I feel like my opinion would change if I knew how to surf. I’ve taken a few lessons, but I’ve never really done it with natural waves in the ocean alone. I really should learn; everyone around me seems to know how to.

Oh, we’re arriving at our destination! I hope you enjoyed my thoughts on this car ride.

The bell rings, directing the rest of the children to come into the auditorium. I’ve been here for the last half hour, pacing back and forth as my nerves flow through me. This is the most important moment of my life so far; I might cry or vomit or faint or run away. Am I prepared enough for this? Will I embarrass myself?

“Are you ready to go on?” It takes me a moment before realizing that my principal was talking, however, I couldn’t seem to get any words out, so I gave him a nod. The bright red curtains begin to squeak open and I quickly run my hands across my blue dress.

“Hello everyone, I’m Lacey Berks, and I’m running to be your eighth grade class president”

After successfully completing my speech (with only a few stutters), another girl who I haven’t seen before confidently strutted across the stage bearing a purple dress, blonde hair, and glasses. I didn’t pay much attention to her speech, given that I was in almost every school club and she was unheard of. Instead, I thought of my winning speech and imagined my name on the board at the front of the school.

But now, from backstage I could hear  the crowd cheering horrifyingly loudly, to the point where it made my shoe buckles rattle. Since when were thirteen year olds this enthusiastic about school government? With curiosity I peeked through the curtain as she reached for the principal's hand, who was coincidentally wearing a tie that matched the color of her dress.

A few days later I was crushed to find out that the mystery candidate won, but she had invited me to the student council meeting that afternoon. My hopes and expectations skyrocketed, while the logical side of me knew that no sane person would ever give up the power that comes with being student body president.

With that being said, the meeting held many surprises. I walked into the student council room to her just standing there, now in jeans and a hoodie, with her back to the door. She turned around as if I had scared her, and for a split second her eyes were wild with huge pupils that revealed no color.

“Oh, hello Lacey! Great speech the other day!” Her voice struck me as odd; as if she were a teacher or parent talking to a child. The teenager instincts in me wanted to run to my friends and explain that she was trying to belittle me.

But I’m not one to judge. “Um, hi,” once again I failed to suppress my stuttering. “I haven’t really seen you in school. Do you—are you in any clubs?” I’m trying to be polite, but I have thousands of questions.

“Speaking of clubs,” her smooth voice hit me again, “you seem to be in quite a lot of them. You must know this school very well, which is why I would like to elect you as vice president.”

I don’t really think she can do that, but who cares? I have a high position and input and just everything a successful student could need! She reaches out for a handshake that I happily give her, and I notice her bright purple nail polish. Suddenly an anxious feeling rises in me, and my stomach tells me that I’ve made a mistake. I look up at my student body president, who once again has violently wild eyes. I watched her pupils grow larger and larger; are her eyes even that big?

“Well,” I say, letting go, “my mom is waiting in the parking lot and I need to go to the bathroom. See you at the meeting next week?”

She snaps back like she had been zoned out, then smiles at me. “Yes! I’m so excited to be working with you!”

I smile back, then try (and fail) to casually walk away quickly. On my trip to the restroom, the school was different. The garden that could be seen from the window now grew lilacs instead of the bright sunflowers, the blue lettering on the school banner had been replaced with violet lettering, and the rainbow notes that had once hung outside the music room were a deep plum. Nothing major had been changed, so I wasn’t going to make a big deal of it. Besides, purple was obviously this girl’s favorite color, and she has the right as president to do some small redecorating.

Finally, I pushed open the bathroom door. I know it’s impossible, but I felt a breeze when I walked in. Soft humming echoed off of the tile. I walked in a little further, and the humming swelled into a chant. It shocked me that all three stalls were actually being used, given that not many students stay after. I looked under the stalls to see if it was true, and my heart stopped. Three pairs of bright purple heels were standing there. My stomach filled with a sick feeling and I ran all the way to the front door of the school. A devilish female laugh came over the loudspeaker, followed by the same chant I heard in the bathroom. I run out I make sure to close the door in a desperate attempt to prevent any followers.

A car pulled to the front, and immediately recognized the license plate as my mother’s. Just as I let out a sigh of relief, I come to the realization that this cannot be her; my mother did not have a purple car.

I have to contemplate what I should do. What options did I have?

The door swung open on its own, and the student body president was standing about twenty feet inside. She began to laugh, then shouted “A practicing witch of a thousand years, and you think you can escape?”

My “mother” rolled down her window just a crack to reveal that she is listening to the chant on full blast.

I’m standing here completely frozen and on the verge of tears. Please help me before the purple surrounds me.