Evanescence

We’re ten. Our parents have forced us to play outside for once despite our loud protests. But of course, we’re completely fine once we’re out. We have snuck out of my backyard and into the strip of woods that lie beyond, walking side by side on the trail.

“A woodpecker!” You’re ecstatic. “You hear it? That’s the first sign of spring!”

Spring is your favorite season. I have never understood why; you say it’s beautiful, but I prefer autumn, when the trees are aflame in scarlet finery. I shrug, hands in my pockets.

“It’s too loud.”

You elbow me. “You’re too loud.”

I grin. You are always the only one who can get me to smile so easily.

We’re eleven. It’s our first sleepover; we’re wearing matching flannel pajamas and fuzzy socks, munching on buttered popcorn as some new action-fantasy film blares on your dad’s laptop. Both of us despise cheesy romance—we prefer elves and blades and warring kingdoms. An hour later, your stuffed animals spectate an epic battle; my pillow has become a daunting iron mace, yours the sword and shield of a brave warrior. You win.

As we settle into our sleeping bags, I whisper, “Good night.”

“I like spring,” you murmur back sleepily. You’re already dreaming, and I snort.

We’re fourteen, complaining about teachers in the school cafeteria. It stinks of sweat and stale lunches. I poke at my lunch, stringy ham in between two slices of soggy white bread.

“I still can’t believe Wilson gave you detention.” You’re ranting, indignant, on my behalf, and it makes me feel warm inside. But I don’t show it. “She’s the stuffiest, most stuck-up piece of—”

“Omigosh, yes!” Another girl, with long dark curls tossed perfectly over a bare shoulder, chimes in. “Wilson stinks. Last week she threatened me with detention just because I brought my art project to class. Like, what?”

You light up, and as you do, I feel a pulse of jealousy spike inside my stomach. “Your art project? For Finley’s class, or…?”

The other girl laughs. She’s slid over to our side of the table, and I can now see her bright doll-blue eyes, provocative white shirt, too-short skirt. “No, no. My own art project. Not for school.”

If possible, you light up further. “Really? What are you working on?”

“Oh, nothing much, really. It’s a secret.” She winks. “But I really like sketching. Are you into art, too?”

Oh, you are so into art. You love your art. You are your art. 

This is getting to be a bit too much.

“Yes, I am!” you squeal. “I love sketching, too!”

And just like that, there’s someone else, in between you and me.

It takes a while, but after a few months, I grow used to having Sara around. She isn’t too obnoxious. But then the number of our friends—your friends—begins to grow. And yet although you claim otherwise, although you insist I’m still your best friend, I am the one who is expected to walk behind the others when there is not enough room on the sidewalk for us all. I do not bring it up. I am not bold enough. 

We’re sixteen. Talking. You want me to be more social. To speak up for myself. To be less of an outcast. Perhaps you are only looking out for me, but all I can think is you never used to care. You accepted my quiet personality, the rarity of my smiles. What has changed?

As you talk, I avoid your gaze. I have never been good at eye contact, but I used to be comfortable with you. I focus on your clothes, instead. I take in your skinny jeans, your camouflage top, your simple choker necklace that Sara designed for you a month ago and that you haven’t taken off since. Then it’s your cherry lip gloss, your perfect ponytail styled high on your head. I swallow.

Am I judging you?

No. Friends do not judge each other. Friends accept each other for who they are.

But you seem to have forgotten.

We’re eighteen. Arguing. It’s senior prom, and I have had enough. You took your boyfriend and did not invite me, and yet somehow I assumed you would let me hang around you so that I would be spared the social humiliation. 

You did not.

You tried to ignore me when I walked up to you. When I asked you how you were, you turned towards your girlfriend and told her loudly how some people just couldn’t take a hint. I stood there, very still, feeling very hot. But it did not last long. For all my life, I have been the quiet, antisocial, fragile person. The one your friends reluctantly censor themselves around.

Not now.

Now, all I feel is rage.

But I am calm as ice. I look you in the eyes. For once, my gaze does not waver. I say the first hurtful thing that comes to mind.

“I hope your friends abandon you tomorrow.”

You laugh. But it’s twisted. I don’t recognize this laugh.

“‘I hope your friends abandon you tomorrow,’” you mimic. “I don’t hang around freakishly shy people. I’m so tired of you tagging along like you don’t have a life. Why can’t you take the hint? Why can’t you just get out of my life?”

I take you outside. And then I yell.

It is the first time I can remember ever raising my voice.

It is the last time I can remember ever speaking to you.

Years pass.

I’m twenty-five. I have graduated from university. I have gotten a job as a reporter. I am no longer afraid of speaking—in my mind, it is because of you. I am engaged to a man I love. My life goes on.

I get a phone call.

I’m walking to the bus stop, the morning new and hopeful, when my phone rings with an unknown number. I take the call anyway, since I’m expecting one for work. What I don’t expect to hear is your mother’s voice, the one that used to ask me if I wanted another chocolate chip cookie, the one that was always so kind even when you started being cold. She asks me if I’m doing alright. Taken aback, I reply yes, I’m doing fine.

“She passed away last night.”

I stop. My throat constricts. “Who?”

“My daughter.” Your mother’s voice is strangled, and I can tell she is choking back tears.

So am I.

I miss the bus as I talk to her. It was a bad car accident, she explains. I don’t press for details. Instead, I just promise to fly back to Long Island to attend the funeral.

When I hang up, I remember the hateful things you said to me all those years ago. But somehow I can’t muster up anger anymore. All I can think of are the rose-tinted memories of walks in the woods, sleepovers, sharing secrets. All I can think of are the good things. It’s funny how much death changes.

Spring was your favorite season. I have never understood why; now I do. Looking around me, all I can see is the silver in the dewy grass, the gold in the thin threads of sunlight, the bronze in the sparrow’s wings as it alights upon a tree branch. 

But for you, spring has lost its luster.

Finis.