From left to right: (L) the reason you cry without fail every time a three-finger salute is raised in The Hunger Games, Amandla Stenberg, or Rue; (C) the reason you’ve started revisiting those once-promising fragments of spoken word poetry you used to scrawl with feverish angst in spiral-bound high school notebooks, Ella Marija Lani Yelich-O’Connor, or Lorde; and (R) the chicest fourteen-year-old this side of 1968, Sally Draper.
Just three regular teen gals doing brunch, nothing to see here. Talking about boys and [home]school, basking in the warm Valencia glow of newfound sorority. Pretending at adulthood with grace; emulating the familiar customs of women living lives well beyond their years – women whose lives and impeccable shoes they will one day inhabit.
But not yet. For now, they’re perfectly content to be young and beautiful and free – free to order blueberry pancakes and French toast with a side of bacon.
Free to tip their waiter your entire annual salary twice over without batting a #flawlessly made-up eye. Free to buy the restaurant where this morning they sat down to brunch.
Nope, nothing to see here. 
