A Thought For An Old Friend

My first drink was a Cranberita. It was a small can, the kind a twelve year old could wrap her entire fist around. I chose the floor of my closet to do it, as it felt small and safe, and I could easily stash the can in a pile of socks if things got dicey. I cracked it slowly, coughing theatrically so my parents wouldn’t hear the hiss. It was cold and sweet and not at all what I had imagined. I downed half the can without trying.

This story isn’t that of a budding alcoholic, but of a more tender tragedy, so I feel its important to tell you, dear reader, that I wasn’t alone. I saved the second half for the girl huddled between a stack of Hollister t-shirts and my old snow-pants. I handed her the holy grail and she drank in big, full gulps. when she lowered the can, I wondered aloud if we had better lay down before we tipped over. She smiled.

I met her in seventh grade. We both played soccer, or more accurately, were both on the soccer team. We were too small to be of any real use, so we sat together on the bench while our classmates ran up and down the painted field. She was beautiful and funny, and confident in a way that mystified me.

After a particularly brutal, late-summer practice, she found me sitting alone on the curb. She tossed her bag into the grass, and sat beside me. We were used to being silent together, waiting to be needed, so I found nothing odd in her wordless company. When my mom pulled up, and I slung stinky bag over aching shoulder,  she stopped me and held out an envelope. I looked around, certain that the heat had confused her. Surly she had mistaken me for someone else, someone cooler, someone who didn’t play the flute or have four library cards. But she smiled and said, “I hope I see you there.”

A birthday invitation. I was in.

We were fast friends. She liked kitkats and American Idol, I liked having a friend who invited me over, it was all very beautiful. She didn’t seem to care that my hair never did the right thing, or that I never really said what I meant. She forgave my dorkiness, and I loved her for it.

I was an anxious child, and early adolescence was no kinder to me. I had a full set of braces and an even fuller set of rejection issues. I agonized over boys with “swooshy” hair, and tweezed my eyebrows into nonexistence. Yeah, I was that girl.

Where I was timid, she was bold. She talked to boys, she wore high heels, she dyed her hair black. This girl wore liminality like skinny jeans. I tried my hand at this bravery, emulating her style in my pathetic, dorky way. I failed, of course, only finding more confusion.

Huddled together in my closet, a year into our friendship, I should have asked her why of all the shin-guard clad girls on our soccer team, she had chosen me. With a breath of liquid courage, I should have asked what I could possibly offer her. How was I, with frizzy curls and astounding averageness, worth knowing? Instead, I stashed the can in the depths of my underwear drawer, and we danced out the front door onto the street.

We padded bear foot down my cul de sac, stumbling in our glorious fake-drunkenness, and talked about boys, or life, or something else entirely. I was completely taken with the darkness of the empty street, and the cold pavement, and being together.

Hours later, under the safety of florescence, we examined the bottoms of our feet. They were black as tar, and covered with a thin layer of unidentifiable grime. Cackling, she danced in the shower, fully clothed, while I scrubbed  my feet under the faucet.

We slept hard that night; a good, long sleep.

In the morning, I kept urgently still. According to twelve year old logic, our night wasn’t over until I opened my eyes, and so I ignored my bladder until it grew to an unprecedented largeness. When I finally ran bow-legged to the bathroom to take the angriest pee of my life, I grudgingly accepted Sunday. We sought bowls of cereal, she called her mom, and within the hour she was waving goodbye with tote bag in hand.

I should have asked her then.

Four years later, we wouldn’t know each other. We would be at different schools, in different lives, with different, beautiful friends. I can never seem to forget her, not that I’ve tried very hard. She chose me when I was frizzy-haired and gap-toothed, and I think I’ll always love her for that.