✨ Splitting

Where we're from and who we are

My mom and I are in line at Eckerd’s and on the magazine rack, tucked amid stacks of YM and Seventeen is a shining stack of something … different. The afternoon light cuts through the windows and reflects off the wrapping, hiding the cover with splotches of white but I can still make out the name. Sugar Magazine. I can tell it’s from the UK because they spell mom with a u and boys are “lads” and the moddy, moody feature with Oasis looks so much deeper and inherently cooler than the neon bubblegum of the Backstreet Boys splattered across the American teen’zines on either side.

I scan the cover for any mentions of sex positions or parental rebellion and beg my mom to get it.

The car has barely stopped at the top of the driveway and I rush to my room, turn up 99X and stretch apart the clear plastic to pour over every page. I could be cool if I lived here. I wouldn’t be the band kid or the theater nerd or the happless goody-two-shoes who won’t help you cheat on your science test. These peop…