The Girl Next Door

I can’t help but hate Erica Clearwater. She's impossible, but in a way that only I'm able to see. It feels like I’m the last person alive who isn’t under her spell. 

She always finds a way to sneak into my mind, even when I’m keeping to myself, walking down the hallway with my head down. Her student council poster jumps from the wall and slides in my way so I have to see her and her crooked nose and freckles.

The worst part is that just because I hate her, doesn’t mean I can do anything about it. She’s lived next door my whole life, and my mom and her mom go to the same pilates class. She and her little brother have pictures next to mine on the mantelpiece.

Therefore, I think I have a well-earned right to hate her, because I know everything there is to know; she’s funny, she got the best grade in history class, and she made the volleyball team (again). Erica this, Erica that. I doubt her parents are chatting about me over Thursday night dinner since my own parents can’t find much to say.

My hair isn’t half as frizzy or tangled as hers, but no one seems to notice. I had braces when I was twelve so my teeth are straight. Erica still has braces, the cool ones that come with different coloured wires. My dad always has something to say about them.

“Blue again this week, huh? Third time’s a charm!”

“Yellow teeth?! Did you forget how to brush ‘em?!”

“Pink braces and a pink shirt? Alert the media; we got a new trend coming in hot!”

She went to a different elementary school than me. Now those were the good days; I could almost pretend she didn’t exist until I got home. Then high school started and all of my friends became her friends. It was like something straight out of my worst nightmare. Everyone I loved slowly became hypnotized and lured away from me.

Before I could come up with some way to stop it, Erica was being invited to hang out after school with us and we were sitting with her at lunch.

Every day is torture to get out of bed now. I have to get up early and straighten my hair, do my makeup, and pick a nice outfit so I won’t have to walk behind everyone on the sidewalk. I can’t tell jokes anymore because Erica says them first, and if she doesn’t, I just know everyone would have laughed harder if she had. Most days, I don't have enough energy to be more like Erica, so I just sit back and let her take the reigns.

Everyone used to compliment my hazel eyes until my friends saw Erica’s sea blue irises. Now she’s the friend with the pretty eyes.

But the absolute worst thing about Erica Clearwater is how she talks to me. I’m not stupid; I’ve known she was a snake ever since I learned what a snake was, but she won’t give it up.

Whenever we’re waiting for class to end and we’re all sitting near the door and I’m being quiet because I have nothing to say whenever Erica’s around, she always makes a big deal out of talking to me.

“Hey, Mara, did you do the English readings last night?”

“Hey Mara, what did you think of that substitute teacher?”

“How was piano lessons, Mara?”

She’d put me on the spot as if I wasn’t being quiet for a reason. I’d have to stammer out a reply and continue to respond when she kept on dragging me deeper into the conversation. It was cruel when she did it in front of my parents, because she should have known by now that I don’t want them to know about all the stuff I do or the new jacket I bought. They’ll just get on my case about school and ask to see my marks or send me away to go do my homework.

There were a few times when we were alone that I almost snapped and called her out on her crap outright, but I didn't. I didn't because even though Erica Clearwater orchestrates my darkest nightmares, I know that if I asked my friends to choose between me and her, they would choose her. I know that my parents wouldn’t understand and they would still invite her to our house every chance they could.

So I endured it. I would sit with her on my bed and talk about television and paint her nails with my nice polish. But mostly, I would answer her questions. Why did she have so many questions? And why did she always have to ask me?

“Mara,” she would say in her soft voice. “Do you think you’ll go away for college?”

“Don’t know,” I’d reply. “I haven’t thought about it.”

She would go quiet, then continue after a moment.

“I was thinking of trying to get into the one in Tuscan,” she would say, shifting to tuck her legs underneath her. “They’re known for their marketing program. You wanted to go into that, right?”

“Yeah,” I would say, narrowing my eyes.

“I think that’s a good school,” she would say, smiling shyly to show off her green banded braces. “If we both go there, do you think we could be roommates?”

My heart sank to the bottom of my chest. That was the worst idea I had ever heard in my life. I could barely stand her now, and I saw her almost all the time; living with her would be one long, drawn-out bought of torment.

My parents wouldn’t think so, though. So I had to shut the idea down before they caught wind of it.

“Well, I don’t really know if I want to go into marketing,” I said, looking down at my hands.

“Really? What else were you thinking?”

I swallowed my irritation. Why wouldn’t she just leave it alone? “I don’t know.”

“Oh, well, you’re really smart, Mara,” she said. “I’m sure you can get into anything.”

I stared at her, unblinking, until my eyes began to burn. She looked back at me, smiling as if nothing was wrong. As if she hadn’t just lied to my face. As if she didn’t know that I was not and would never be as smart as she was.

My expression began to crack. Her smile faded. 

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, standing to my feet. “I’m going to the washroom.”

I turned the fan on and sat on the floor and cried until she went home.

The next day she was extra nice to me, just to rub salt into my open wounds. We’ve never talked about that day and I prefer to keep it that way.

***

Of course, Bryan Anderson asks Erica to prom. It’s a big deal and he involves most of our class and he brings balloons for goodness sake. I congratulate Erica as she’s the first one of us to get asked to prom. 

Then she has the nerve to sound disappointed. "Yeah, but I kinda just wanted to go with you guys."

"Oh, well," I say, swallowing my annoyance. "We'll still be there, right?"

She gives me a smile. "Do you think we could slow dance, too?"

She already expects me not to have a date. I ball my hands into fists and force out a laugh.

All our other friends get significantly less grandiose promposals, but at least they get one.

No one asks me. Of course they don’t. A few people asked me to go as just friends in passing while walking to class, but I don’t want to be someone’s pity date. I want a promposal with balloons and Bryan Anderson because I’ve had a crush on him for months.

Erica didn’t know that, though. For all the stupid questions she always asks me, she never cared enough to find out who I liked. In fact, I haven't told anyone. I don't want my - Erica’s - friends to go running to her. I don't need her to have that hanging over me too.

Getting ready for prom is fun. We rent a limo and do each other’s makeup and I’m in charge of painting everyone’s nails. My hair is fancy and my mom wouldn’t stop hugging me and telling me how beautiful I looked.

The first part of prom is also fun. There’s food and dancing and my friends hang out with me instead of their dates. Then the slow songs start.

I watch Erica dance with Bryan for one song, then two, and by the third, my heart is in my throat and the air is too thick to swallow. The bathroom is swamped with people, so I race outside to the gazebo instead. I sit down and embrace the cold dusk breeze. The silence and beautiful valley view are enough to erase the image of Erica from my mind.

“Mara?”

I turn. It’s her. I set my jaw.

“What are you doing out here?” she asks, sounding worried. I look around. Bryan’s nowhere in sight.

“What are you doing?” I fire back, hating how my voice quivers.

“I saw you run out,” she says, taking a seat beside me. Her leg presses against mine and the warmth of her helps fend off the cold. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say. I’m doing a miserable job at sounding like I mean it. “Just … go back to Bryan.”

“No way,” she says, folding her arms.

“Why not?”

She makes a face. “What do you mean? I’m not leaving you out here all by yourself. What kind of best friend does that?”

Her words rattle through me. I sit in bewildered shock, staring at her with wide eyes. If she notices my confusion, she ignores it.

She shifts in her seat, turning her body to face me. I immediately miss her leg pressed against mine.

“I really need to talk to you,” she says. I can see my reflection in her huge, glassy eyes. They're the most beautiful blue I've ever seen. “There’s something I need to tell you…”

***

And just like that, no one likes Erica anymore. Her posters are on the ground because people pulled them off. The one next to my foot has an ugly mustache and devil horns drawn on it.

She had to quit the volleyball team because her teammates refused to talk to or communicate with her at all. My mom told me that her grades began to slip. She stopped showing up to school a week ago.

My friends won’t stop talking about her. They’re talking with their lips curled upwards in disgust. Seeing them say her name with such revulsion should be therapeutic to me, but it isn’t. My heart hurts even worse than it did when she was here.

I wish I could leave it alone. I wish I could go to school every day and smile because I thought I wanted everyone to hate her. The truth is, my chest is aching and although I want to go to her I can't. I hide in my room and paint my nails in her favourite colour.

Finally, I stop avoiding it. After school and after I drop my bag off in my room, I run to her front door and rap my knuckles loudly on the solid oak frame. Her mom opens the door and smiles when she sees me. She sighs in relief.

“Thanks for coming, Mara,” she says. I didn't tell her I was coming. “Erica’s upstairs.”

I nod and slip by her, barely computing her words. I race up the stairs because I don’t want to waste another second. But I stop when I reach her door.

Suddenly, I can’t see her. I want to run. I want to turn tail and leave just like I had on prom night. But I can’t move.

So I swallow my pride. “Erica?”

She doesn’t respond. However, I hear the creak of her old wooden bed frame. I hope she’s listening.

The words shoot out of me: “I’m sorry.”

Still no response. I deserve it; two little words aren’t going to do much at this point.

“I… I, um,” I say, feeling my throat begin to constrict. “I’ve missed you at school.”

I cringe at my own words. They sound fake and they fall flat. I rest my forehead against her door and sigh.

“I know you really don’t want to see me. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me ever again” I say, my voice raw with emotions I don’t understand yet. “So I’m just going to say this and then I promise I’ll leave.”

I strain my ears to hear something - anything - but all I can hear is her mom moving around downstairs.

“I’m an idiot,” I say, my lower lip trembling. “I-I don’t know how I could have messed up this badly, Erica.” I cover my eyes with my hand in shame. “I shouldn’t have left you there. I-I should have …”

I take a shaky breath and tilt my head back, searching the ceiling as if the words I need to say will be written there.

“I should have told you how I felt, but as stupid as it sounds, I didn’t … I didn’t know.” The first tears fall from my eyes, slowly trickling down my cheeks and smudging my makeup. The reality of my situation crushes me like a heavyweight pressing down on my chest. “I’ve never hated you, Erica. I’ve always hated me. I hate how my parents always talk about how perfect you are and I …”

I purse my lips together, but there’s no hiding how badly my voice is shaking. So I resign to just speak, allowing her to hear every tremble and hiccup.

“I’m jealous of who you are and … everything, really,” I say. I raise my hand and gingerly press my fingertips against the door. “I’m an idiot, I know. And damn it, I know it’s too late to, but …” I bolster every shred of courage that I have and pick up every piece of my heart. “But I love you too, Erica. I always have.”  

My eyes slip closed. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. Behind my eyelids I see Erica’s lips move as she mouths the words I love you. Then I see the heartbreak in her eyes as I stand up and walk away after telling her what I thought I felt. I remember how she panicked and ran to one of our friends and told her what had happened and how that ‘friend’ had spread the news like wildfire: Erica’s a dyke. Erica wants to suck face with Mara. Oh my God, I shared a change room with her!

“I don’t know why I didn’t realize it until now,” I say. “But I know that I wanted to take it all back as soon as I left. But you know me, I’m an idiot.”

Her silence is killing me. I can only imagine this was how she had felt that night when I walked away; broken and helpless.

“I’m sorry, Erica,” I say. “I’m sorry that you had to fall in love with me. You deserve Princess Diana and a golden carriage and a scholarship to Tuscan. Not me.” I push myself upright and wipe the tears from my face. “I’m sorry for everything. I …”

I shut my mouth. There is really nothing I could ever say to fix things, so I give her door one last lingering look, then turn for the stairs.

Just as I’m about to descend, I hear the creak of Erica’s door opening. She’s been crying too, of course she has. She can’t seem to keep it together after our eyes meet. That’s okay, though, because I feel the same.

We meet each other halfway, wrapping each other in a hug that articulates everything we can't say aloud.  

And at that moment, I know it isn’t a choice: I can’t help but love Erica Clearwater.