Crayons.

Letters to my Sister in Japan — Day 75

He made me so angry I was seeing red

Dear Sister,

In twenty-three minutes, my oldest friend will be turning twenty-nine, and all I can think about is how he broke my favorite crayon. It is his favorite story from the early days of our friendship. He never forgets to bring it up when I’m eating dinner with him and his lovely family. That’s not my favorite story about us, though. My favorite story has less to do with crayons and more to do with recess.


It was the first day of third grade and Corey was one of the new kids in our G.A.T.E. class. He and I successfully tested into G.A.T.E. during the same year, but unfortunately for him, he had to transfer over from a different school, while I simply had to go to a different classroom.

I forgot that the very first day I met Corey, I volunteered to be his tour guide to our elementary school. It was at the beginning of class and he had to go to the bathroom. Ms. Hernandez asked the class if anyone wanted to show Corey around campus. I immediately raised my hand (I couldn’t tell you why) and, according to him, I gave him a thorough tour.

“You were very nice to me when we first met. Don’t you remember?” he once asked me when we were much, much older.

I have a hard time remembering the specifics of those early days, but I can describe some (very) general feelings from that time, and some tiny pieces of personal trivia that I must have honed in on and never let go. From there, I’ve filled in tiny memories that may or may not be true, but thinking about them makes them feel real. Like ripping out the pages of a coloring book, and running broad, crayon marks over the black-and-white line work, and calling the final product a satisfactory analog of a true photo.

This definitely happened though.

For starters, Corey always made me feel happy. I wish I could I tell you what about him made me feel happy, but all I remember was that we instantly clicked. He sat across from me so it was very easy to laugh at everything he said. We played the same games during recess so it was very easy to have fun with him. We liked the same cartoon shows and toys and video games, so it was very easy to share an experience because you could tell that there was genuine interest in what I had to say coming from the other side. For an eight-year-old, I didn’t need this explained to me though. It just all fell together naturally.

From this happiness, I was able to learn so much about him, and from what I learned about him, I was able to piece together some of my fondest images of that class. I remember lining up to go to outside, and on the wall, right next to where we stood, there were our pictures and our names and little facts about us right underneath. “Corey was born in Arizona. He likes pizza and plays soccer.” Another interesting fact is that he was the only person in that entire class to know that I was madly in love with Christina Brown. He was also the second fastest boy in our classroom, because I remember him running circles around everyone else and finishing early during our PE laps. At the risk of sounding creepier than I already am, I could go on.

But that’s the point, though. I respected and loved this kid so much, that bits and pieces of our friendship simply sublimated into the bigger picture of what third grade was to me. My only regret, and my favorite part of all this, is that I probably looked up to him a little too much.

There was a time when Corey and I would do nothing more than walk around the playground during recess and talk. Our topics mostly focused on the latest Spider-man episode, Beast Wars action figures, and at one point: Super Mario 64.

One day I caught Corey’s ear with tips and tricks I read in a Nintendo Power magazine, and I liked the way it made me feel. I had his full, undivided attention, and he kept asking me questions about Super Mario 64. So once I ran out of material, I lied. I made stuff up. I did what every shitty eight-year-old does on the playground, and I just made up stories of things I never did. Obviously, deep down, I just wanted him to like me. I think I understood that then, but as an eight-year-old, all I really wanted was for my friend to like me more, and for him to never find out that I was living a lie.

“Marco, do you remember when you lied to me about Super Mario 64? How you could get these different colored hats that make you do crazy things? Like, you told me there was a rainbow hat too. Dude, you’re such a pathological liar.”

Eventually, he did find out. And truth be told, those tall-tales permanently damaged my credibility and trustworthiness, in his eyes, for the rest of our lives. It hurts a bit, and it makes me cringe to retrace the steps of my sins, yet it’s still my favorite memory of us from that time. Why? Was it because I fooled him good?

No. It was because he saw me at my most desperate and most insecure — at that time, mind you — and he forgave me and continued to be my friend. A friendship that has lasted well over two decades, this year.


But what about his favorite story? The one where he broke my magic crayon? Well, maybe when you come back from Japan, sister, you can ask him about it. I’m sure he’ll bring it up anyways.

Love,

Your Little Brother

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