LESLIE PANTALEON
YEARS AS MENTEE: 3
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Midwood High School
BORN: Brooklyn, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I recently stumbled on an unfinished poem I started working on for Lauren in ninth grade, and it made me reflect on how my relationship with her has changed. Lauren and I have often talked about what things would be like one year, two years, three years from when we met. Now that those years are finally catching up with us, I am proud of how much we have matured. Together, Lauren and I have always been special, but this year especially, we have become more open, communicative, and honest.
LAUREN HESSE
YEARS AS MENTOR: 6
OCCUPATION: Social Media Director, Little, Brown and Company
BORN: Albany, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Leslie is one of the most thoughtful, intelligent, kind, and inquisitive people I have ever met. I feel so lucky to know her, let alone be her mentor! From her writing when we’re together to her teaching me about her work in the debate club—I am so lucky to have spent another year with Leslie!
This is dedicated to a woman Lauren and I met who, for all her faults, lived her life in accordance with one word: Bold. She is the perfect subject for the theme Ctrl + B.
The light from Penelope’s phone flashed across her face as she groggily swiped open the screen. She moved down her inbox, eliminating about a dozen spam emails before opening one that piqued her interest.
Hey, Penelope,
I know it’s been some time since we reconnected, but I wanted to pick your brain on something. The board of directors at Generic Publishing Agency and Sons has asked me to present an award to a woman who has been working at the agency since its heyday. Her name is Hazel Moss. She seems to be a spitfire, but I’ve never met her. Because of the nature of your work, I know you run into a lot of people; have you met her?
In any case, I’d love to hear back from you. How’s your mom? I hope she’s feeling better after what happened last May. My mom keeps telling me to visit. One of these days, I promise I will.
Best,
Mira
After spending some minutes in bed with her fingers around her phone, Penelope began typing, obsessing over the appropriate way to start this email:
“Hello, Mira.” Aloof. Cold. Distant.
“Hey, Mira!” Excited. Uncharacteristically energetic? Fake.
“How goes it, stranger?” Awkward. Passive-aggressive?
Hi Mira,
I know nothing of Hazel Moss, except that I’ve been briefly acquainted with her at an impromptu lecture she gave at a private writers’ function in uptown Manhattan. I remember her distinctly because she wore sunglasses inside.
Hazel’s sunglasses were so conspicuous that Penelope wasn’t sure if she wore them to avoid attention or to engage it. She’d imagined Hazel’s eyes to be wrinkled and small. Penelope is not entirely mistaken. Hazel’s sunken bone structure tells you that she must have been, for a time, beautiful.
Her arms were covered by chunky bangles like the tattoo sleeves on that café man you despise so much. Her neck was decorated with long, stringy necklaces, like the costume jewelry you’d find at street vendors in Chinatown. Besides this basic physical description … what I can offer is merely speculative.
It was true that Penelope had met Hazel Moss before, though not quite so personally. The woman was a guest speaker during a workshop celebrating women in the publishing industry, and she had certainly left an impression. Penelope held her phone against her chest and stared at her bedroom wall color while she tried to reinvigorate her memories about that day.
When Hazel arrived, she walked deliberately to the front of the room, puffed out her small frame like a decrepit hummingbird boasting its withered feathers. Once there, she made a dramatic show of taking off her things, uncoiling the long black velvet scarf that covered her neck and sat, perched delicately on an antique white wooden stool in front of a sunlight-flooded window. Small conversations subsided in order to accommodate her presence.
She seems used to being the object of attention, Penelope typed. She doesn’t just expect it, she commands it. Her way of life is refreshing, and unprecedented.
Here Penelope stopped, and looked at the bulletin board across the room above her desk. Pinned to it was a neon-yellow square: “AMATEUR NIGHT AT KONG’S. 9 P.M.” At the bottom corner, in small cursive handwriting, was a phone number and a note: “Hope to see you there. You know where to find me.” Penelope stared at that paper for a very long time.
Hazel Moss probably didn’t let people talk over her. Hazel Moss probably told people how she felt. Hazel Moss didn’t stutter, or get choked up when she spoke in front of an audience. Hazel Moss didn’t drink in attention, either. Rather, it was the world that drank in Hazel Moss.
She’s an inspiration to other women. I think that’s all that needs to be said. If you visit my mom anytime soon, let me know. I’ll go with you. I think I’ll need some help finding a publisher soon. I’ve started writing again.
Love,
Penelope