She starts her champagne-colored mini-van and pulls outof the driveway. I scan her profile, starting at her strawberry-blond hair andmoving down to her gray, emotionless eyes. She feels my stare and looks at me.Our eyes connect and she makes a harsh comment about my eye makeup.

Ifeel the tension build. I twirl my curly hair and try to ignore her remark. Shebegins to yell at my brother in the back seat. Their arguing fades as I stare outthe window.

I daydream about the past and how great my childhood was. Iremember spending all my free time with her when I was seven. She was my bestfriend. We used to walk around the block and sit on the swing in the front yardand I'd tell her all my secrets. I'd rush home from school and tell her everydetail of my day.

I'd spend my Saturday nights on her king-size water beddoing her hair and making her "pretty." We'd shop all day and come homeand eat pineapple sundaes and have those special moments Dad envied. She knew whoI was and I knew her. I loved her, and I showed it.

Nowadays, I spend allmy time with my friends or hidden away in my room. If we talk it's only to argue,and we never have five minutes together without tension. I don't know when or howor even why it all changed, but it did. It's kind of scary.

A familiarbuilding wakes me from my trance, and my head hurts from thinking of my traumaticrelationship with this woman. I look at her again, wishing I wasn't so stubbornand could tell her how I feel. I want to be her best friend again and know I'mloved by her. I open the passenger door, quickly wipe the tear that secretly leftmy green eye and mumble quietly, "Bye, Mom."