1: Best Friend
Dedicated to all my best friends
then and now
who saw me at my best and worst
but still loved me all the same
The review mirror shows the times we're abandoning
Let's leave this life behind forgetting all they say
- Haight St., Anberlin
11. It was sixth grade. Your class was a melange of rowdy boys turning classrooms into playgrounds and girls who were just discovering the power of a little spritz of cologne and the temptress charm of a tiny bit of a pout. You were stuck in the middle. A whole year younger than the rest, you were wide-eyed, amazed at all the sudden changes a thrust of hormones could bring. Bags no longer had cartoon characters printed on them and the concept of lunchboxes seemed prehistoric. Notes containing lewd jokes were being passed around in class. Soda was the choice drink and everyone seemed to have a pack of gum in their pockets. Even P.E. shorts suddenly had to be a little bit too short.
Suddenly, everyone was cool and grown-up. Everyone but you.
You still had the bag your Mom had lovingly drawn on with fabric paint, a packed lunch waiting quietly inside for you to enjoy. You didn't like soda, and you thought gum was too tiring to chew. Although your tennis shoes were new and sleek you hesitated in passing around folded notebook paper containing what you knew were probably odd circles resembling boobs. You were tall and knew how to hit and how to swim a proper lap so you weren't the butt of jokes, but you weren't all there yet, either. You didn't like it, being in the middle. It was lonely.
You remember it well, how you met. After P.E. your uniform was sticking to your back like wet paper. Your throat was dry, like someone had stuck a wad of tissues into your mouth.
"Can I have a drink of water?" you asked a girl who was busy chugging from a giant army green Coleman jug.
(Wait a minute. A jug? In the sixth grade? Wow, I thought we were rid of those in third grade.)The girl was shorter than you, scrawnier. Her thick glasses (Whoa, glasses!) were fogged with condensation. She looked as uncomfortable as you were at your approach.
"Em. Sure." She handed the jug over. From inside, you could hear ice dancing with water.
"Hey thanks!" you said, and grabbed the jug, drinking the water greedily. You didn't finish it, but enjoyed it so much that each Tuesday you approached the girl after P.E. and asked if you could have a drink. To your surprise, the girl readily gave it, even though sometimes (accidentally) you'd finish the entire jug.
You learned her name, this Jug Girl. This petite creature who wore her watch on her right wrist, could do a mean breaststroke, and had loopy handwriting you were secretly jealous of. You became friends, the two of you staying in the Middle. Enjoying it, lavishing the non-attention it gave you, the cloak of Blending In where neither of you were pressured to be someone else.
You became friends, and eventually, the girl stopped bringing her jug and told you flat-out to just drink from the fountain, which you did.
Life went on.
20. Nine years down the road, this conversation took place between you and the girl (no more glasses, and definitely no more jug), gum and sodas replaced by burnt-out cigarettes and cheap coffee (still in the Middle):
"You know, I was scared of you in the sixth grade. That's why I gave up my jug every time."
You had to laugh.
"Thank you, then."
"For what?"
"For standing up to me."
This girl, from that moment, you'd known she'd never abandon you, would smack you if you were wrong, would tell you to stop crying and face the world with a stiff upper lip; who would never lie to you but tell it straight, would actually say in your face, "I'm too busy, talk to me later" with no pretensions; who was never bothered about being in the Middle and staying there, never conforming, but never really standing out to be recognized as odd.
She was Best Friend, no longer just Jug Girl, and you were glad you finally got to thank her.
"You're a dork, but you're welcome."