To My Old Best Friend

Let’s Stop Trying to Make It Work

Every now and then, I’ll see you. It’s always random. Always quick. You’ll decide to go to a party or maybe you’ll show up randomly at my school because you wanted to see all of the kids who may not have thought of you for a while.

“I missed you so much!” you’ll exclaim. Your pink lipgloss framed smile will practically gleam and your blonde hair will be flying in all directions.

I remember in 7th grade when most of my clothes had strands of straight, blonde hair clinging to them. Clearly not my own.

I didn’t mind it. If anything, it sort of felt like we were attached in a way. Like it was a sign that our friendship was worn in. (I disregarded all of the times that you would grab at my hair and make a face. Of course.)

We used to work on all these projects together. DIY kids always covered in glitter and blue eyeshadow. We were vampires first. Then fashion designers. Then psychic investigators. (God I had the nerve to ask my religious Christian mother for an Ouija Board). Then we were mermaids. Then we were filming a show about mermaids. (I had the nerve to ask for a mermaid tail. It now sits at the top of my closet, collecting dust). Mom was right.

I remember that one time you promised to take all of your friends to Florida. The perfect Disney getaway. You brought in brochures for me and we talked for hours about what we wanted to do, where we were going to eat. I could practically taste the pancakes. (But you didn’t bring me. Of course). You took someone else. A pretty, bleach blonde someone else. (I guess that justified it).

I remember tears threatening to escape my dark brown eyes when you both walked into math class with tanned skin and matching cornrows. God being a kid sucked sometimes.

I remember when you called me ghetto for the first time. When you looked at your own split ends and called them ratchet.

I remember when your mom dressed you in a pair of my pants, just so you both could laugh at how baggy they were.

I remember all of this. And I’m trying, trying not to.

So please don’t send me pictures from when we were young. Especially the ones where I’m smiling. Don’t shower me in the sweet ‘I miss you’ s. They burn.

I have real friends now. You were the tooth fairy. The excitement of waking up and swiping your hands under the pillow. The disappointment in discovering that you had been forgotten.

Please don’t misunderstand me.

I hope your cotton candy dreams do come true.

(But god, I really hope you leave me alone.)