"Magnolia Wu Unfolds It All" by Chanel Miller

When Magnolia saw the laundromat through a classmate’s eyes, she became self-conscious of the smallest things.

It occurred to Magnolia that maybe Iris had been bitter about New York because she was homesick, and that feeling was tainting her view of everything glorious the city had to offer.

If the woman had speech bubbles, they would’ve been spiky like sea urchins, jutting out like spears.

“This is a two-hundred-dollar blouse you RUINED, and I am UTTERLY infuriated.”

Wu, and Magnolia watched as it engulfed her mom’s face like a floppy stingray before sliding off.

Lam’s face was glossy with sweat, her booming voice leading a group of women who were all punching the air as if pummeling an army of ghosts.

Magnolia slunk along the back wall, following Iris into an equipment room full of weights and two large exercise balls.

She thought of life as something that unfolded around her and happened to her while she was content being an observer.

Magnolia knew almost everyone within a mile radius of the laundromat—the muscly man with twinkly star sheets that helped soothe his nightmares, the lady with paint stains on her overalls, the kid with guinea pig hairs on his pajamas, the list went on and on.

Magnolia was thrilled by all of it, but she noticed that as confident as Iris had been pitching this idea in the equipment room, her demeanor on the street was entirely different.

She pointed to a flurry of pigeons.

She taught her cockroaches were less scary if you named them Itsy Bitsy Badadinga, so if one scuttled past, you could say, Itsy Bitsy Badadinga is here to party.

As they continued down the street, Iris’s shoulders slowly unfurled from their hunched position until she and Magnolia were walking side by side.

In a corner of Washington Square Park, there was a cluster of stone tables where people stooped over black and white pieces, shaded by the trees.

As if on cue, bird poop dropped like a dollop of sour cream, splattering beside Magnolia’s shoes.

As Carl had predicted, they’d made a few wrong turns, but as long as they persisted, they’d end up in exactly the right place.

indefatigable two
THE PINK KNITTED SOCK

“Your mom always used to sneak off when we were little, crawl under fences, through holes, over walls. I remember she’d come home right before dinner and say, Check me—it was my job to check for leaves in her hair, pieces of grass in her ear, cobwebs on her shirt. I’d wipe the dirt off her face, make sure she was presentable before our mom had any questions about where she’d been. I think that’s how she learned to sew, patching up her ripped shirts that snagged on thorny bushes.”

Magnolia grinned, seeing Alan being reprimanded.

“Do you get what I mean now? It’s like all the interesting parts drained out of him. He’s so . . . pompous.”

“This sock is slightly misshapen, probably knitted by hand. Ready for S.O.C.?” said Iris.

Magnolia had always wanted to enjoy a mug of coffee on a coaster, but her mom said no caffeine until she was thirteen, because it’d “stunt her growth.”

There were stacks of wire baskets filled with skeins of yarn and silk threads the color of asparagus and chili peppers and dandelions.

The noodles were woven together with the same intricate, elegant stitching as the sock.

“I can do more than just socks. This sock is just a piece of a larger ensemble. I have this vision, an entire runway of my knitted pieces.”

“Creating modern designs out of yarn makes the pieces feel striking but familiar, cozy and chic. Hoodies that unfurl into floor-length dresses. Bucket hats that extend into scarves. I have so many ideas, just no time to execute them.”

MAGNOLIA AND IRIS WERE SITTING on the floor of the laundromat, letting a plastic fan oscillate back and forth between the both of them.

As soon as she said it, Magnolia heard the mean undertone below her words.

Zito’s energy was so infectious you couldn’t help but feel buoyed by it.

Every hurtful nickname Magnolia had gained at school had been concocted by Aspen: Stinker, Pipsqueaky Clean, Wash’n’Fold Wu.

Aspen averted his eyes and took a bite out of his pizza.

After years of consumption, their feathers turn pink.

It was Aspen, making a shushing motion, a noticeable fleck of parmesan stuck to his upper lip.

Magnolia detected that Aspen was getting agitated and felt an odd satisfaction, withholding something that he wanted, finally having some power for once.

Magnolia had imagined Aspen assuming this kind of awestruck tone when describing a sports stadium or an arcade, but definitely not a room wallpapered with smiling bookworms.

Iris gave her a look, as if warning her that Aspen was now dipping a toe in vulnerable waters by opening himself up, and if they startled him, he’d never wade in any deeper.

Magnolia handed Iris the pizza receipt that was now damp from her clammy hand.

“I’d be on the soccer field all day if I could. Coach made me goalie, and I’m loving it. But my mom says the sun’s bad for my skin, so I have to limit my exposure. Well, she didn’t say that to me, she texted it to Sunny, who said it to me. I dunno, it can get lonely up here.”

Fig jam had just materialized in front of her.

“There are skirmishes, of course, but we work it out. Can’t move forward otherwise.”

Anu yelled, legs flailing through the air.

“It signifies an ending. I used to be terrified of them.”

splendiferous three
SALTY MUSCLES

MAGNOLIA SPENT ALL NIGHT PACING back and forth across the laundromat, brainstorming ideas for an apology.

New York storefronts were always getting tagged with graffiti; sometimes strangers spray-painted cupcakes or skulls, wrote phrases like The world is ending or Miss you the most.

Magnolia was tempted to turn around, run away from the red-stained rag and the upsetting feelings that were burbling up.

Magnolia conjured the image in her mind of thirty women pouring onto the sidewalk behind Ms.

In the silence, they shared the unspoken understanding that the underlying message was Go back to where you came from.

She thought of the day she met Iris, the way she’d taken interest in every mundane detail of the laundromat, picking up and admiring a seashell.

Iris slowly examined the details: the lumpy floor, the plastic fan, and the fluorescent sunshine.

“Whoa, that’s kinda funky. Did you make it?” said Magnolia.

“Me, my mom, and my dad. But my dad had a temper. Like, once, I wanted to show him how soft my new sweater was and rubbed it against his cheek. I didn’t know the tag was still attached, and it scraped him and he lost it, went ballistic.”

There was no pattern, nothing distinct about it, and Magnolia was relieved Iris was back because she had no idea where to begin.

Coconuts did not grow in New York City, but coconut-scented products were abundant.

If anyone knew anything about coconut-scented goods, it’d be Ali, who ran the bodega on the corner.

Mister Pants and Pockets were good friends—the narrative that dogs and cats were enemies was quite outdated.

The label of the floor polish caught Iris’s eye: silhouettes of palm fronds with black spheres beneath them.

The water had washed off the dust, revealing something she couldn’t see before: a faded bumblebee, their school mascot, beside the embroidered letters: J-A-N.

She thought of her young mom, who was courageous enough to leave home and cross that vast blue ocean to come here and build a new one.

The basketball ricocheted off the rim, and when he turned to catch it, he saw them and froze.

Aspen, Magnolia, Iris, Luis, and Jessica huddled together in rapt attention as Mr.