When the Lavenders Disappeared
I had always been quiet and reclusive, even as a child. Or, more like, despite being a child — that age when being alone was such a severe crime (one that warranted an hour or two of serious discussion with the grown-ups), that age when becoming a part of a clique was an absolute necessity.
As much as I enjoyed the freedom of being my own person, of not being encumbered by raucous kids whose sole purpose was to annoy me, I was still a little girl through and through, and a part of me clamored to have someone — anyone — whom I could spend my lonely afternoons with.
You see, right after classes, I still had to hang around the school grounds for another couple of hours before my parents could finally pick me up. I didn’t mind it at the beginning. In fact, I was positively thrilled — the idea of exploring every nook and cranny of the school without anyone on my trail was an adventure that I couldn’t possibly say no to.
That is, until I caught a glimpse of other children frolicking among themselves, their riotous laughter resounding in the air, the sun dousing their lithe, wiry bodies in a cascade of red and orange. And there I was, a stark contrast against their bliss: a lone figure amusing myself with the various plants and flowers I gingerly picked up on the pavements. I suddenly felt foolish.
But all these changed when someone else strode into my turf — my classmate Faye, who would be fetched late for the next few days because her Dad had something to attend to.
Faye was also the first person that I befriended during my afternoon adventures.
Or so I thought.
This whole affair turned out to be the bloom of a fairly complicated friendship.
For one, Faye established rules — rules that I steadfastly clung to. I was too ecstatic to finally have a companion that I didn’t even bother to question — much less refuse — her ludicrous conditions.
“We need to act like strangers during class.”
That was her golden rule. It meant that no one, especially not her best friend Beatrice, should know that we were more than acquaintances. I didn’t understand it back then, and it never occurred to me to voice out my qualms.
It was only a few years later when I finally realized why.
Faye was ashamed of me, of course — the quiet kid whom the bullies would constantly pick on, the dull little girl who preferred to hover on a corner, her nose buried in books, instead of hanging out with the rest of the class. She wanted nothing to do with the likes of me.
I was only her substitute companion, just that—I was the one who could fill in the void brought about by her best friend’s absence. That was all there was to it. I was merely an extra that could be discarded any time she fancied.
But none of these mattered then. The silly eight-year-old me was too grateful to have a friend, and the only important thing was the time we fondly spent together — playing with worms (a peculiar activity that she introduced to me), exchanging stories, deftly fashioning crowns from Santan flowers, and buying odd trinkets for each other from the nearby store, like that necklace with a dried lavender perched inside a tiny bottle as its pendant, which we swore to always wear under our cream uniforms —
Only our friendship wasn’t as undying as these wisps of vibrant lavenders. On the contrary, it withered — then disintegrated — before I even had the chance to know what was happening.
Without any warning whatsoever, Faye stopped staying late after class. She also stopped sparing me even the merest hint of a glance, now that Beatrice had once again eased herself into the orbit of Faye’s life.
And her uniform bore no telltale signs of the small bottle that was supposed to lurk underneath it.
