Exhibit A: Week 3: Shenanigans
The two of you walk out of class together, joking and laughing and carrying on. You exchange Invader Zim quotes back and forth, she clutching to her sketch book to her chest and you holding your notebook to your own.
A writer and an artist. Two teen girls, aspiring to be better than they are. To keep improving, to one day be famous for your individual work. You giggle together as you plot the mean, horrific things you’re going to do to your characters. To the characters you’re borrowing for your fanfiction. Not a care in the fucking world for four whole minutes.
When the bell rings, the two of you realize you’ve got about a minute to make it to your next period. You’re running through the halls, backpacks bouncing. Mr. Cole shakes his head as the two of you sidle right into his classroom just before the second bell. Yet again, the two of you aren’t late for class -- but barely so.
Out of breath, you two collapse into your seats. Freshman year. The start of a wonderful friendship.
***
She hands you a note, folded intricately. You read it while waiting for Mr. O to get the band room in order.
She’s in love with you. She wants you to be happy. Wants you to be with her.
You bite your lip and look up -- your eyes meet with the boy’s in the low brass section. He raises an eyebrow and you shake your head. When his brow furrows together, you just manage to smile. That seems to satisfy him, as he turns away from you and holds his euphonium upright.
Within seconds, you refold the letter and shove it back into your pocket. You’ll talk to him about it later -- after you’ve figured out how to turn her down.
It’s not that you don’t love her -- you do. As a friend. As a sister, even. Can’t imagine your life without her now, never would want to.
But you love him. As in love. As much as you don’t want to break her heart, you know you have to. When Mr. O raises his baton, you pick up your mallets quickly and try to pay attention.
You hope you can talk to her, soon.
***
“I can’t believe you’re fucking making me wear a dress,” she mutters as you two walk through David’s Bridal.
“Dude, if I have to fucking wear one, so do you,” you return, grinning at her. You run your fingers through your hair -- will it even be long enough to pull back at your wedding? You don’t even know anymore. Not sure you even really care.
Your mother flits about, moving in and out through the racks. You know the exact dress you’re looking for. Pick it off of the rack without a second thought as your mother pulls out three or four more dresses for you. What do you know, the one you picked is the one you take home.
The real highlight, though? When you find a dress for her. When she walks out of the dressing room with it on backwards.
She’s so butch she doesn’t even know how to put on a dress. No wonder she’s your best friend -- the Maid of Honor -- no, Man of Honor at your wedding. You two can be equally clueless on how to walk in heels together. It’ll be glorious, you think to yourself.
And it was.
***
“Dude,” you call through her door, a hand on your overly round stomach. The contractions are coming now -- small ones. But your water broke. You knock hesitantly. It’s midnight. You know she’s asleep. As much as you don’t want to wake her, you know you have to.
“Yeah?” she returns, her voice thick with sleep.
“My water broke,” you respond. Within seconds her door flies open, her eyes wide. Your own are filling with tears.
Kiddo’s not due for another two and a half weeks -- but he’s decided he’s gonna come now. “We’re going to the one on base, right?” she breathes, throwing her glasses over her eyes.
You can only nod your head as you both walk out of the house and to her car. The two of you don’t say anything, but when you make it to the front gates, her face falls.
“Shit,” she hisses, reaching into her back pocket. “I forgot my wallet, dude.”
“Just tell them my water broke,” you mutter back, trying to stifle a laugh. It’s one in the morning now. Of course they’re doing ID checks. They always do them late at night. And you’re pretty sure you forgot yours, too.
Thankfully, the guard at the gate is understanding. Or horrified that a pregnant woman is in the middle of (very early) labor. Either way, he waves you two through. You’re joking and laughing the rest of the way to Naval.
Even though he’s still on his way home from Afghanistan, you know you’ll be able to make it through this, as long as she’s by your side.
***
New Years Eve. She no longer lives with you, having moved out of your place a over a year ago. She’s closer to your brother, now. Which is good -- they need each other, just like you the two of you needed each other.
She watches and even helps as you corral your three year old back into his room over and over again. Laughs when he asks, “Bob, are you okay?” whenever he gets upset. Hugs him and holds him when he cries.
She goes by “Uncle,” now. With her hair cropped short and her ever permanent tank top, you think the name fits. Hell, it was even her idea, back when you were still baking the kid. When he finally settles down, you sit around, knocking back drinks and playing board games.
Because that’s how you rolled. Fuck video games, a trivia game by the name of Smart Ass has won your heart and you are shouting over one another, trying to answer each question first. When you’re done with that, it’s Cards Against Humanity. Which, you have to admit, that game has ruined Apples to Apples for you forever.
You’re giggling almost uncontrollably. Definitely drunk and your husband has decided you’re cut off. Whatever, you never drink, and the extra couple of shots you sneak in when dropping dishes off into the kitchen? Totally worth the hangover the next day.
The whole time, she’s drunk, too. Laughs at how cute you are when you’re drunk. It’s just good to have her over and not have her hide in your brother’s room. Good to see her so happy. Good to see her more like herself than she has been in years. Like the girl you met when you were fourteen.
***
The next time you see her, you’re wearing a dress. After all, she wore one to your wedding. It’s only appropriate to wear one to her funeral, right?
A writer and an artist. Two teen girls, aspiring to be better than they are. To keep improving, to one day be famous for your individual work. You giggle together as you plot the mean, horrific things you’re going to do to your characters. To the characters you’re borrowing for your fanfiction. Not a care in the fucking world for four whole minutes.
When the bell rings, the two of you realize you’ve got about a minute to make it to your next period. You’re running through the halls, backpacks bouncing. Mr. Cole shakes his head as the two of you sidle right into his classroom just before the second bell. Yet again, the two of you aren’t late for class -- but barely so.
Out of breath, you two collapse into your seats. Freshman year. The start of a wonderful friendship.
***
She hands you a note, folded intricately. You read it while waiting for Mr. O to get the band room in order.
She’s in love with you. She wants you to be happy. Wants you to be with her.
You bite your lip and look up -- your eyes meet with the boy’s in the low brass section. He raises an eyebrow and you shake your head. When his brow furrows together, you just manage to smile. That seems to satisfy him, as he turns away from you and holds his euphonium upright.
Within seconds, you refold the letter and shove it back into your pocket. You’ll talk to him about it later -- after you’ve figured out how to turn her down.
It’s not that you don’t love her -- you do. As a friend. As a sister, even. Can’t imagine your life without her now, never would want to.
But you love him. As in love. As much as you don’t want to break her heart, you know you have to. When Mr. O raises his baton, you pick up your mallets quickly and try to pay attention.
You hope you can talk to her, soon.
***
“I can’t believe you’re fucking making me wear a dress,” she mutters as you two walk through David’s Bridal.
“Dude, if I have to fucking wear one, so do you,” you return, grinning at her. You run your fingers through your hair -- will it even be long enough to pull back at your wedding? You don’t even know anymore. Not sure you even really care.
Your mother flits about, moving in and out through the racks. You know the exact dress you’re looking for. Pick it off of the rack without a second thought as your mother pulls out three or four more dresses for you. What do you know, the one you picked is the one you take home.
The real highlight, though? When you find a dress for her. When she walks out of the dressing room with it on backwards.
She’s so butch she doesn’t even know how to put on a dress. No wonder she’s your best friend -- the Maid of Honor -- no, Man of Honor at your wedding. You two can be equally clueless on how to walk in heels together. It’ll be glorious, you think to yourself.
And it was.
***
“Dude,” you call through her door, a hand on your overly round stomach. The contractions are coming now -- small ones. But your water broke. You knock hesitantly. It’s midnight. You know she’s asleep. As much as you don’t want to wake her, you know you have to.
“Yeah?” she returns, her voice thick with sleep.
“My water broke,” you respond. Within seconds her door flies open, her eyes wide. Your own are filling with tears.
Kiddo’s not due for another two and a half weeks -- but he’s decided he’s gonna come now. “We’re going to the one on base, right?” she breathes, throwing her glasses over her eyes.
You can only nod your head as you both walk out of the house and to her car. The two of you don’t say anything, but when you make it to the front gates, her face falls.
“Shit,” she hisses, reaching into her back pocket. “I forgot my wallet, dude.”
“Just tell them my water broke,” you mutter back, trying to stifle a laugh. It’s one in the morning now. Of course they’re doing ID checks. They always do them late at night. And you’re pretty sure you forgot yours, too.
Thankfully, the guard at the gate is understanding. Or horrified that a pregnant woman is in the middle of (very early) labor. Either way, he waves you two through. You’re joking and laughing the rest of the way to Naval.
Even though he’s still on his way home from Afghanistan, you know you’ll be able to make it through this, as long as she’s by your side.
***
New Years Eve. She no longer lives with you, having moved out of your place a over a year ago. She’s closer to your brother, now. Which is good -- they need each other, just like you the two of you needed each other.
She watches and even helps as you corral your three year old back into his room over and over again. Laughs when he asks, “Bob, are you okay?” whenever he gets upset. Hugs him and holds him when he cries.
She goes by “Uncle,” now. With her hair cropped short and her ever permanent tank top, you think the name fits. Hell, it was even her idea, back when you were still baking the kid. When he finally settles down, you sit around, knocking back drinks and playing board games.
Because that’s how you rolled. Fuck video games, a trivia game by the name of Smart Ass has won your heart and you are shouting over one another, trying to answer each question first. When you’re done with that, it’s Cards Against Humanity. Which, you have to admit, that game has ruined Apples to Apples for you forever.
You’re giggling almost uncontrollably. Definitely drunk and your husband has decided you’re cut off. Whatever, you never drink, and the extra couple of shots you sneak in when dropping dishes off into the kitchen? Totally worth the hangover the next day.
The whole time, she’s drunk, too. Laughs at how cute you are when you’re drunk. It’s just good to have her over and not have her hide in your brother’s room. Good to see her so happy. Good to see her more like herself than she has been in years. Like the girl you met when you were fourteen.
***
The next time you see her, you’re wearing a dress. After all, she wore one to your wedding. It’s only appropriate to wear one to her funeral, right?