6.

“It’s not fair,” you say, as if that makes any difference.

It’s not fair, of course, but nothing is. That’s the point.

Autumn is approaching, gradually like a scar forming. Leaves are becoming brittle and dappled; the air is cooling and turning the sky a sharper blue. You’re staring at the horizon as if you’re trying to determine the exact moment the city line kisses the sky. Smog and the sunset meet and create a smudged tawny line, breaking off into skyscrapers and the golden, tangerine glow of the sinking sun.

I walk towards you, dropping to the ground by your side, mimicking your criss-cross-applesauce style and leaning back against my palms. The chilled concrete tickles my warm hands and I sigh, quietly, closing my eyes.


5.
“Stanford,” you say, dropping the acceptance letter on my kitchen table like it’s burned you.

“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my neck and shuffle my feet awkwardly.

You push yourself out of the chair and stride out of my house. I follow after you, and see you sitting on the sidewalk. You hug your abdomen like you’re trying to hold in your organs and a sob breaks from your throat.

“I’m sorry.” I offer, but the platitude sounds flimsy even to me.

You snort in response. “We’re best friends. We’re supposed to be best friends forever. You and me against the world.”

“People change. We grow up. We have to, you know that.”

“I don’t want to.”

“No,” I say, voice sharper than I intended, “you want to… to be Peter Pan or something. But you don’t get to do that. You have to grow up.”

“But that’s… it’s…”


4.

“You’re coming over to my place this weekend,” you say, standing in front of my locker with your hand on your hip and your mouth set like you’re ready for a fight. Not unreasonable, as I’m prepared to give one
We’ve been growing apart; I can feel it. Excuses for missed phone calls turn to not seeing each other for days, not really speaking for weeks. Unanswered texts and unopened e-mails pile up like snow fall, until a wall of white traps us. At first it was unnoticeable, but then time started to separate us. Your eyes grew heavy with mascara and secrets, and my life became weighed down by AP textbooks and tutoring sessions. I meet people who understand why physics is so interesting, and our lives, once so entwined, are now like repelling sides of a magnet. I miss you, when I can, but mostly I am consumed by everything else.

I nod, and when I drop my over night bag in your front hall the next Saturday, you drag me forward immediately, music blaring from unseen speakers, your lips already shaping the words to the song.

You’re laughing, laughing and crying and smiling and screaming, all at once. You’re so loud and brilliant and alive, like the sun. (I’m afraid, a bit, that if I stay around you too long I’ll evaporate in your presence.)

We dance all through the night, ignoring the shouts from neighboring apartments, turning the music up until the walls vibrate and we can feel the beat thrumming in our skin. This is, I think, what it means to be young.


3.

We drive out to the middle of nowhere and draw pictures in the white pinpricks of the starlight above us. The night is cold and the air filled with dust and it’s so quiet that for a while I’m convinced we’re the only two people left alive.

Lying back against the hood of your busted up Toyota, hearts pounding against our ribcages. They sound like feet, running across the ground. Our pulses race each other to the finish line, that sliver of light at the horizon. You take my hand in yours (your fingers are long, thin, and a little damp. I rest my thumb on one of your knuckles, and I can trace the lines of the bone through your skin) and we grow dizzy from watching the stars spin above us.

“You know,” you say, “most of them are dead. The stars. They’ve burned out, but their light is so slow reaching us that we can still see them. They’re gone, we’re seeing the ghosts—the memories of what they were.”

I frown. “That’s kind of morbid.”

“It’s a morbid, terrible kind of universe. Sides, everything dies. Hakuna matata, and all that.”

“The circle of life, I think you mean.”

You shrug. “Whatever. And, hey, you’re the morbid one. You like those gross cop shows with the gooey corpses and stuff.”
I shove your shoulder, rolling my eyes. “They’re interesting. You’re just a wimp.”
You scoff, but I can’t get your words out of my mind. I don’t agree. The world is massive and gorgeous and wonderful. I slip my hand from yours and sit up, lean forward with my elbows against my knees and my eyes on the ground, thinking.


2.

We make it to high school together. As I walk down the hall, students shoving each other to get to class, my hand tightens around my backpack strap. The purple and blue bracelet you made me is tied around my wrist, the threads dipped in memories of playgrounds and carefree summers and when it was socially acceptable to like Disney films.

Someone knocks into me and the books clutched to my chest fall, papers fluttering across the floor as I land with a thud. Someone else laughs, and before embarrassment can color my cheeks you’re there, stepping in front of me, all fierce determination, entirely unafraid. After verbally eviscerating the onlookers, you drop down next to me and help scoop up the rest of my things. You grin, your cheeks rounded and soft from the baby weight that’s still hanging on your frame, and pull me to my feet.

“You’re such a dork,” you say, tugging me forward for a quick hug. I can’t breathe and it feels amazing. You’ve snuck into my chest, plucked the breath straight from my lungs and hung around, curling around my heart.

“Thanks.”

“That’s what friends are for. Now c’mon, don’t want to be late.”


1.

“Your hair is stupid,” you say, they are, in fact, the first four words you ever say to me. I fidget with my glasses and look at the ground. “Wanna play basketball?” The single basketball court in the playground has deep cracks and no net around the hoop. I nod, and end up skinning my knees and chipping my glasses.

When I fall for the fourth time, gravel sticking to my hands and blood welling up in the scratches in my palms, your shoes appear on the asphalt in front of me. I look up, squinting, as the sun throws shadows across your body, illuminating the back of your hair like a halo. You stick and arm out and haul me to my feet, and grin, big and fearless and beautiful.

“We’re best friends,” you tell me seriously, tilting your head and studying me to make sure I understand.

It feels like someone’s tied all my insides to a balloon, so I’m hollow and flying at the same time. I smile, and fall a little bit in love with you.


7.

“Life’s not fair,” I say.

You glance at me, sideways and curious. I used to think you weren’t scared of anything, but now I know you’re just a really good liar. You grin, and it’s big and beautiful and so, so sad. You remind of a bird whose wings have been clipped, toddling around on two feet and always looking up.

“I’ll miss you.”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking of sneaking beers to the park and watching the sky, of friendship bracelets and giggling in sleeping bags and of the future, green campuses and full libraries and people, new people, faceless, nameless and just brimming with the potential for memories. “Me too.”

“No you won’t. I was your first friend because you’re a giant nerd with ridiculous hair. I was your first friend, but then you grew up smart and found out there are other people who are not me who like you. Who are like you. But you’re my only friend.”
My ribcage shrinks and shrinks and shrinks until it’s squeezing painfully around my heart, a fist of bones clutching the muscle. My throat constricts and I can’t breathe and it hurts. I have the awful feeling that overcomes me when something is ending—when I’m reading a great book, and my finger lingers on the final page. I know it’s over but I cannot bring myself to turn the page, to face the reality of it. I whisper, “I’m sorry,” but it sits wrong on my tongue.

You laugh, a terrible, bitter thing. “Yeah. Me too.”