All Notes Go to Heaven

“What is this?” 

Streak held a small cylindrical object up to the light, puzzling at its neon insides.

“That’s a pen.”

Streak rolled their eyes. “I know what a pen is. But look at it. Who writes in bright pink ink?”

A wave of memories hit me so hard I felt dizzy. I almost swooned, so I sat down.

“Grandma, are you okay?” Chat rushed over. “Do you need water?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine.” 

I pointed at the tiny gel pen.

“Do you know what this was used for?”

The kids shook their heads. 

“Girls used it. On me. To communicate.”

Snap furrowed his brow. “That doesn’t make any sense. You’re a notebook. You’re used for business, lists…” He struggled to find a third example and ultimately gave up. “… notes.”

“Gather round, children,” I told them. “And I will tell you about The Friendship Notebook.”

I could tell they didn’t want to listen, but they respected their elders. Chair legs scraped on the floor as their took their seats to listen.

“Decades ago, high school girls would share one notebook between the three of them. While they were separated in different classrooms, one of them had the notebook. She would write in it and then between classes hand it off to her best friend. When that girl was in her next class, she would read what the previous girl had written, add her own notes, and pass it along.”

Finsta laughed. “Couldn’t they just DM each other?”

I shook my head. “iPhones didn’t exist back then. We had to use other means of staying connected.”

“Sometimes I forget how old you are,” Screen giggled. 

I gave her a pretend mean look. 

“You’ll be lucky if you stick around as long as me.”

But it wasn’t the same anymore, and I knew it. My pages used to contain love and exchange and giggles and gossip. Now it was all just… scrawl. Meant to be translated later into a better, more efficient medium. A second brain. Not a relic, like me.

“What kinds of things would they write in you?” Meme asked. “Letters?”

But in this moment, I was relevant again. 

“Oh, nothing that stuffy,” I smiled, remembering. “Gossip Girl quotes, mostly. References to inside jokes that wouldn’t have made sense to anyone else. Pasted in photos of celebrities with abs.”

“And they did this…”

“Every day.” I smiled. “Sometimes they used regular pens or pencils. Sometimes gel pens like this one.”

“But why?” 

Streak just couldn’t wrap their head around it. 

“Did they show anyone else what they had written? Was there a reward for writing a response in a timely manner? What if someone held on to the notebook for too long and didn’t contribute?”

I shrugged. “That never happened. The girls had fun with it. They were excited to add another entry. It made them connected. Like having a shared diary.”

They all chewed on this for a moment. 

“What’s a diary?” Streak asked.

“Sometimes I forget how young you are,” I poked back with a grin. 

“Do you still have the pages?” Finsta asked.  “I wanna see.”

 “I do.”

“And the friends?” Meme asked. “They still talk?”

“No,” I said quietly.  

“Oh,” said Streak. Everyone twitched uncomfortably.

“What happened?” Chat asked what everyone was thinking.

I shifted sadly in my seat. “One of the friends received an AIM from someone they all knew—”

“What’s an AIM?” 

I sighed. My heart suddenly ached for my long dead friend. I was so tired.

“I think that’s enough story time for today,” I told them.

“Awww come on!” Streak protested.

“That’s enough,” a gravelly voice said from behind me. I turned quickly, a bit embarrassed. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

“Screenshot,” I said nervously. “I was just telling the kids about how I used to be a Friendship Notebook.”

“I heard,” she snapped. Screenshot lit up a cigarette and took a long drag. She looked down at the innocent, eager faces of the optimistic youth around us.

“Communication can bring friends together. But the wrong kind also tears them apart. And if evidence of betrayal gets into the wrong hands…” she shook her head and blew smoke over our heads. “There’s no point in dredging up the past,” she insisted. “Believe me.”

I cast my eyes down, chastened. 

“Now hurry up. We need this closed cleaned out before the new girl gets here.”  

But the kids were too distracted, too fidgety, too nervous now. “Screenshot,” one of them tugged at her arm. “Why do friendships end?” 

She cast an accusatory look at me like, “See what you did?” 

I avoided her gaze and went back to sifting through the closet. Nostalgia had overtaken me, and going through the items was not loosening its grip. I picked up a musty sweater that had belonged to Top Eight. A long, curly cord left by landline. 

“Friendships end for all kinds of reasons,” Screenshot explained to the littles patiently. “It’s our job to provide them with what they need to flourish. But sometimes there’s nothing we can do.”

“Screenshot?” Finsta asked nervously. “What happens when we die?” 

I held Mix Tape’s old scarf up to my face and inhaled deeply. It still had her scent. I felt Screenshot’s gaze on me and forced myself to shoved it into the cardboard box for the giveaway items. 

“Don’t worry about that,” she consoled the girl. “As long as you stay useful, they’ll keep you around.”

Until something better comes along, I thought bitterly to myself.

“No one is going to die,” a musical voice trilled, and suddenly the room was full of love.

She swept in with motherly grace and wrapped Finsta in her arms. The physical touch comforted her, and everyone relaxed. 

“Proximity,” I sighed with relief. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Of course,” she smiled at me and took the scarf out of the box, wrapping it around my neck. 

“I’ll always be here for you.”