The Bird and the Stone

Her name meant ‘bird,’ and mine ‘stone.’ Well, ‘noble stone,’ at least. I met her five years ago at our home school co-op. I got as close to hating her as I could without actually crossing that line; I wouldn’t be able to live with my conscience if I did. She felt the same about me. We would avoid each other continually. Glares from across the hall, and competitions to be the smartest in the class were normal. She thought I was a wimp and a pushover. She was stuck up and a show-off--I have her permission to say that now, since she has long since admitted it. Who knew where that would take us today? I remember it was on a low, swollen tree branch during a game of capture the flag in the woods where we pledged eternal friendship. Well, as close to that as we could get; always the obliger, I was the one who held out my pinky and proposed, “Let’s promise to try to be best friends as long as we possibly can.” To be fair, I was nine. I wasn’t the most eloquent girl in the world. But to my surprise, she hooked her pinky around mine and confirmed, “Friends.” That was the beginning. From there we tramped on through the woods, confidant now that we had someone by our side--not just for the game, but for life. I’m not exactly sure why I asked to be her friend, much less best friend, nor do I really care anymore. What I know now is that she has given me years and years worth of beautiful memories. We played that game--capture the flag--more times than I can count, and when we were chosen to be on opposing teams, you could cut the friendly tension of competition with a knife. Occasionally, we would find ourselves passing the border of the marked property line to explore what lay beyond. Met with old, angry-looking, moss-covered trees and shrubs, we might have turned back. But every time we could look each of us at the other, and take off running as far as we could go. There wasn’t any real danger to it because of the nearby road that showed us the borders of our stomping grounds in a more compelling way than the private property signs did (we didn’t yet fully understand the significance of those yet). An old,dead,  tangled, alder was the most-visited refuge. The eerie lichen that hung there provided a canopy of concealment for our secret conversations of books and opinions. We imagined it was a willow tree over a clear lake of glass--until the inevitable Pacific Northwest rain tore us out of that fancy. We would purposely walk at a snail’s pace back to class in order to prolong our ‘very important conversations,’ and I would slip on a hill and pretend to have twisted my ankle, limping pathetically to support the slow-going. Another friend of ours, Milly Thompson, one day took us aside and revealed a key in the table closet. The conspiracies began. She taught Grace and I to speak Gibberish--a ‘language’ spoken by adding various sounds to words at the syllables. During Christmas break, Grace and I practiced fervently, preparing to impress our friend. When we heard the news that she wasn’t coming back, we set out to finish what Milly had started; we became mischievous. We reached high up for the lone key hanging from a nail on the wall of a closet, snatched it, and began to search for the lock it...affected. To our slight disappointment, we found only that it could work for the doors of the church pantry and cleaning closet. One of us came up with the brilliant idea to lock the door of the cleaning closet, watch as a faithful mom of one of our classmates tried to open the door, failed, and went out to find Grace’s mom. That was when we would unlock the door and race to set the key in its place so we could watch Mrs. Coppin fumble with the door handle. 

Upstairs in that church there also happened to be an office that contained a bowl filled to the brim with jelly beans. The height of mischief for the children there that year, and the grief of all the mothers, was perhaps that we would tip-toe in, grab a handful of the candy, and sneak out to distribute the meager helpings to all our friends. Of course, the one who would sneak in the most was naturally the most celebrated on the playgrounds, and usually was renowned for their skill at the game Museum and the weekly plank contests. Humbly I now tell you that it was Grace and I who would most often seek out the jelly beans, tie in Museum, and practice our planks. 

When the end of that first year rolled around we had been  preparing speeches on a figure in history in first person and dress the part. I don’t remember what the date was, only that it was May, 2015. Excitement and adrenaline coursed through my veins as  I scurried through the halls searching frantically for Grace to help me drape my golden robe over my arms. Finally I found her, after what seemed like hours and hours of searching. I rushed into the bathroom she was in--she was just putting on her costume; she was going to be Abraham Lincoln--and cried, “Grace, I need your help! Will you please help me with my robe?” 

“Just a second, I’m trying to get my notes in my hat.”

Reluctantly I nodded, and began to slather rose-scented lotion all over my neck, arms, and legs. “Leane, what are you doing? It’s beginning to stink in here.”

“If I’m going to be Esther, I need to smell like her! I have my purple dress, this golden robe, but she went through a year of beauty treatment so I think her skin would smell good, which means I need to smell good too.” Grace scoffed slightly and laughed as she kept stuffing her notes into her hat; the wanted to be as much like President Lincoln as possible. Almost twenty minutes later, we were all set for performance. Our class filed down the isles in the sanctuary, and one at a time we gave our speeches. I hardly remember any of it now, except that Grace had to thrust her head forward to show the her efforts concerning her hat’s contents, Parker Boots wore cotton balls on a baseball cap to be George Washington, John Greco was draped in a tan sheet to be...Pompeii? And Alex Melville dressed as her namesake, Alexander the Great. My own speech has made its way completely out of my memory. 

The next year brought its share of challenges, as a new girl was landed in our class. At the time, Grace and I thought her over-sensitive and, well, kind of wimpy. But eventually we learned to let Marie into our circle. The thing that repelled us most was, honestly, that she was sympathetic toward Douglas. Douglas was the resident know-it-all who took control over every assigned partner project, though I can say now that he has proven to be a friend. But then, we didn't even know him as Douglas; he was introduced to us as Dougie. I, for one, thought it was a joke, and laughed in his face, though much to my regret. He would usually just disregard the tutor, who, in fact, was that year my mom. Dougie would interrupt her, correct her even when she was right, and most of the class had a special prejudice towards him. Marie was the one who became his most loyal friend and did her did her best to get to know him when the rest of us avoided the person in question. But my mother knew what she was about, and whenever Alex and Grace and I would meet, she would invite Marie as well. It was so hard to not hurt her feelings, but also not always give her her way (even though she was our age), but it was in this way that we got to know her. Since my dad worked as the marketing director at a summer camp, our band of friends had the privilege to canoe across the lake and use the camp inflatables and water slide at whenever we liked--almost.

At the camp, Grace and I would wander the motocross trails, naming different landmarks after significant locations in our favorite books. There was hardly a day we wouldn't fawn over Narnia or Lord of the Rings, the latter making a huge, unpredictable impact on our friendship. I had just picked up the Hobbit when a friend, Peter Anderson, noticed what I was reading and asked if I had read Lord of the Rings. Since I had not, and actually found myself interested in the series, I answered him, "I haven't, but I want to." He asked me if I would like to borrow his copy, and eagerly I accepted. This followed with him lending me all three books, along with the occasional gift. I had followed Grace into the women's bathroom to talk with her as she assisted her little sister, holding the last volume unopened in my hand. While I was awaiting my dear friend, I opened the book, revealing a slip of paper that turned out to be a very real love letter from Peter! I gasped, completely unprepared, and immediately informed Grace. She burst out laughing. Realizing it was probably silly that I be so concerned about something like this at age eleven, I began to laugh too. The idea! Peter, a four-foot five boy who didn't hardly know me, having a crush on yours truly! It was just too funny not to laugh about. The sad part was it was true. Every word. Every little trinket he had slipped to me. And Grace was the only one that knew. Well, at least that did bring us together in a way, knowing that I had a secret--no matter how childish it was--and she was the only one outside my parents that knew.

We learned the violin and piano together, met several times a week just to sit and do nothing, and explored every place I moved to. We spent night after night whispering secrets to each other, dreaming and planning our future. Walking to the store and the beach became regular for us, but the knowledge that she was going to move loomed over us, only slightly for a time. We chattered in the back seat of our minivans in Gibberish, convulsing whenever either mine or her dad made fun of us. We confided in one another, and stood true when her grandpa died, when we didn't know where we were going to move. When her dad got his orders from the military that their family was going to move to Juneau, whole states away, it was a heavy blow. I met with Grace last week at our beach. Each of us on paddle boards, we sat in silence, watching the stray seaweed drift on the surface of the waves. An eagle cried from its perch in a tree, and Grace turned to face me. "I have something to give to you. I finally found it, but my mom made me promise to not really give it away, so I'll just loan it to you." I nodded and hummed, picking up my paddle. "What is it? Beren and Luthien?" That was a book Grace had received for Christmas a few years ago, but had no interest in reading; she said she would give it to me when she found it. "You'll find out," she answered, her smile giving it away.

When we reached shore, she climbed off her board, left in in the water, and lifted her towel to reveal that beautiful book. She handed it to me, for of course I was beside her now, and opened the cover. Written in her cursive was, "Property of Grace Coppin, loaned to Leane Astley until August 20, 2028."

"Eight years," I whispered, running my hand along the cover. "Eight years on your birthday. And you're moving in a week..." I trailed, unable to find the rest of the sentence. I didn't want to think about it. She sighed and looked up at the sky, painted shades of pink and orange behind the mountains. Clouds covered the sun itself, but its light was borne by the gentle waves to shore. "Yes. But I will continue to do Debate with you at the club, I'll still join class every so often over Zoom. It'll be fun." Doubt lingered in her voice. "It will be fun. And It'll never be the same. I can't believe that through five years, we...we were a fellowship. I mean, just the two of us, but we really did life together. Next time I see you, I'm going to be twenty-two, probably in college in England or someplace--"

"Leane."

"What?"

"I'm still going to fly down for tournaments, remember?"

"Oh yeah...But that's only for a while. I mean we won't really see each other, and spend time with each other..." My eyes wander to Grace's paddle board still floating in the water. "I'm still going to miss you," I whispered. She looks at me. "I'll miss you too; you were the best friend I have ever had." I nodded and looked at my watch, briefly wondering when my mom would come to pick us up. But until then, until Grace leaves, I'm content with watching the sky.

----------------------Eight Years Later-------------------------

I pull into the gravel parking lot of the church where we met. It's cool for an August day, and the wind moves the trees just enough to be visible. My fingers fumble with the ribbon around the gift I brought Grace. We have hardly spoken these last few years. But there is still a bond that I can feel, and as sure as I can feel it, I know she'll be here. I run my hand over the smooth cover of Beren and Luthien as I scan the parking lot for another car that could be hers. The only other people that would be here are the pastors or secretaries or something. Feeling my car heat up, I quickly decide I do not want to be cooked in a metal and pleather oven, and scramble out the door, clutching the book and Grace's birthday present. I really hope this isn't awkward. What if she's married? Or dating? I know she's twenty-one, but it's still a weird thought. Last time I saw her, she was thirteen! What if she has kids? Or is rich?

A maroon Toyota Carola sweeps into the driveway and parks a few spaces away from my own car. The glare of the sun is too bright for me to see who is inside, so I stand as inconspicuously as I can against my door, squinting my eyes even though new sunglasses shade them. Please, please let it be her. The door swings open, and suddenly a young woman with light, hay-colored hair runs, and I mean runs, towards me. "LEANE!" The woman shrieks. I stand stock still, frozen. This is really Grace. Nope, nothing glinting on her left hand--thank goodness. "Grace, Grace, you're here! Uh, hi!" I'm not entirely sure what to say, as it has been just under eight years. Grace pulls me into an unexpected hug. I stiffen, but once I remember it's Grace, I lean in and smile. It's still her, my very best friend from thirteen years ago.