No Idea

For five years Lucy and I were inseparable. We’d stay up for hours editing videos, uploading photos on our joint Tumblr account, watching scary movies that we shouldn’t. Once we racked a phone bill of sixty pounds up by prank calling 118 247; the information line advertised by the funny men in little red shorts.

We saw each other through horrors and feelings of isolation. We’d never have to go anywhere or face anything alone, because it was a given that the other would be there; another half to make one whole.

She used to do my art homework for me because she had a creative flair, and I was useless at it. I would in turn be the extrovert; I’d get us into parties and include her in all the fun. Once we went camping and it was me, Lucy and a boy from our school. The boy and I spent the whole night kissing, while she patiently pretended to sleep. Only now I realise how horrible this night would have been for her.

When we turned 15 everything was sure to change. Our hormones flung us into a confusing time. We grew boobs and started drinking at house parties. I thought we broke apart because I simply grew up faster than she, but I was mistaken.

I made another friend, Kelly, who was beautiful and slim and stylish. Lucy never brushed her hair and never spoke about boys and sex. Kelly and I would drink wine at her house and have a takeaway. Lucy was stuck in the past; wanting to post on Tumblr, putting The Descent on for the umpteenth time. I got restless, I saw Lucy less, and I was growing out of our friendship.

On what would be our last ever sleepover, there was a shift in our friendship that would cause a permanent rift between us. The whole night felt forced, she looked like she wanted to say something but she never did. We watched films in silence and didn’t giggle at daft parts. We’d slept top and tail in a single bed at a reasonable hour; I just wanted to sleep and for the night to end.

The next morning I was meeting another friend – a boy – to smoke together. Lucy hated drugs, she said they were dirty and lectured me. All through the morning when I had tried to set off to meet Lewis, she would beg me to wait a bit longer. I didn’t understand why she wanted to stay when she looked so unhappy. I eventually lost my temper and asked my mum to drop her off at home. Mum and I fell out on a huge scale later that day: she said Lucy was crying in the car and that I had been horrible pushing her out.

A month later I’d actually moved in with my father as me and my mother were arguing constantly. Lucy apologised for causing the argument, we had hugged but it was like gluing a vase back together: it just wasn’t the same.

Lucy planned and invite Kelly and I – and one other – to the hill near her house for a picnic on her birthday. The day was hot and sticky; the middle of July. Kelly and I wore denim shorts and bought ice pops for our journey. It never occurred to me to even buy Lucy a card. I’d bought Kelly a handbag for hers, though.

We trekked through our little town in Manchester until we got to the field. My converse slipped on the dewy grass and we howled with laughter as I fell. We took photos on our flip-phones and I complained about my big nose.

We reached the other girls, about an hour late, and crossed our legs to sit down. Lucy had brought her speaker, which vibrated from the beats of a Kanye West song that we had once rehearsed the lyrics together. It was awkward: conversation was slow and strenuous, all banter taken seriously and the atmosphere was tense. Lucy had thrown me a look that I didn’t understand then, her eyes pinched at the corners and her eyes were watery and sad. We’d planned to have a barbeque, but I had stormed off, eyes rolling, before the coals were even warm.

Kelly had run after me, and we left linking arm in arm to stay at her house. I ranted the whole way home:

“What’s her issue? Why is she so clingy and weird?” I huffed and stomped.

“God knows,” Kelly reassured “she was looking at you strange the whole time. Why won’t she just come out with it?” I shrugged, and told Kelly about the day that Lucy didn’t want to leave my house to go home.

In hindsight, I could have made assumptions like abuse, or any trouble at home, but I was only 15, I had no idea these types of things existed in my circle. Luckily it wasn’t that, but the reality pieced everything together like a complicated, double sided jigsaw puzzle.

Years later, when we had parted ways and were sworn enemies; after, in college, she spread a rumour saying that my new boyfriend was 10 years older than me and that I was a slut (James was 3 years older), I found out that Lucy was gay.

By the time I’d found out, she was in university and I was still in Manchester; blissfully ignorant of the huge turn her life had taken. I wonder if she had fell in love with me, and this was why she was jealous when I spent time with others; why she felt protective; why it got awkward to be together alone. The rumour she started stunk of jealousy, and only now had I realised why.

***

A few months ago, I had a nightmare that Lucy got killed in a terrorist attack. I had woke in a panic: my face wet with tears and my head soaked in sweat. She had died horribly; shrapnel plunged into her pale skull and shards of glass wedged between her ribs. Her long unkempt mane was matted with blood, her eyes were dead and empty.

I wrote to her that evening after unblocking her on social media. There was no need to hold a grudge anymore. I wrote:

“Hi Lucy, I just had a dream that you died in a terrorist attack and I’ve woken up crying. I’m sorry for what happened between us and I hope that you are well. Amy.”

Not long after I pressed ‘send’ did she reply. She said:

“Hi, I’m ok. I’m sorry too.”