A Little Tinder and Kindling

I met my best friend, Sophie, in pre-k.

Back then, she wore her hair in a thick, dark bob with straight bangs. Every single day, she would come to school wearing an atrociously patterned skirt with matching leggings. My fashion sense wasn’t much better. I think my whole wardrobe consisted of a single cherry-patterned dress and a baby blue fuzzy sweater.

I was rather outgoing when I was younger and was generally at least acquaintances with all the girls in the class. (Boys had cooties.) So, I knew of Sophie in a we’re-in-the-same-girl-gang kind of way.

We became real friends one recess at the beginning of the year, both of us staying behind for an extra minute. I was a cute little kleptomaniac back then and so was she. As it turns out, we were both trying to steal the same blue, glittery pencil from Mrs. McKinley’s desk. The prize went to me in the end; I bargained for it with the pink, glittery one I had slipped into my Eeyore backpack earlier that week. Needless to say, we got on like a house on fire. 

Mrs. McKinley disliked us. She disliked us very much. Not separately because separately we were angels. It was when we were together that her annoyance would skyrocket. There was just this je ne sais quoi about us. We talked all day, never slept at nap time, and always pilfered the sparkly classroom supplies. (I don’t think she knew we were the culprits, but she got increasingly protective of the writing utensils throughout that year.)

“Calla Jane! Sophie!” she would squawk. One right after the other, always together. And then, in her nicest tone with a forced smile, “Please, be quiet. Naptime is silent time.”

We were little demons. Little did she know, we were trying to get in trouble. Because, Sophie and I, we loved her punishments. The penalty was peeling crayons, and, gosh, did we love a good crayon-peeling session during recess. We could talk all we liked without the sweltering heat of the sun and half-rundown playground equipment threatening to cave under our weight. 

Kindergarten went just the same. During naptime, we never slept. And when the long-suffering Mrs. Burns separated us, one on each side of a play bridge, we whispered happily right under the archway. 

Miss Castillo, my first-grade teacher, rather liked me. I was a smart child, and Sophie was not in my class. That was not to say we were separated during recess. Sophie and I were the queens of the swing set now that we were old enough to use it. (I was inordinately proud of my flying dismounts.) No one could use the swings except us. 

We made the grand discovery that boys did not, in fact, have cooties in first grade. This translated to me having a wicked crush on a kid named Sebastian. We were both the top of the class, doing that AIG thing most elementary schools did. But, he was always just a hair smarter than me. (The only interaction I can remember with Sebastian contains him boasting that he knew his powers of ten, which, when I was six, was very impressive.) His golden hair and blue eyes and intellect just captured my young heart.

But things changed. 

In second grade, I switched schools. I was shipped off on my first day of class in a shiny new uniform and told I needed a rosary. I had grown out of my childish outgoingness at this point, and during my first day, I met Ellie, one of the teacher’s daughters. She pulled me off of my lonely vigil on a bench to play tag with her and her friends. So, Faith and the twins, Emily and Kat, joined my small friend circle. We all talked at recess where the equipment wasn’t run down and a soccer field took up half the yard. I got glasses and started going by CJ. I crushed on a new blond-haired boy. I forgot who I left behind.

As it was a Catholic school, I attended Mass every Friday before classes rolled around. I was not a religious child, and I think it showed. That first Friday, I had no idea when I was supposed to sit or stand or kneel. I was not fluent in the church-going etiquette. By the time Ash Wednesday rolled around, nothing had improved; I was the only kid who refused the ash cross. 

By the time fourth grade rolled around, I was getting a quality, Christian education, but I felt stifled. I had been failing religion class for the past two years at a Catholic school. (When questioned about this by my mother, at eight years old I replied, “But the answer is always peace, love, or Jesus!”) The principal was a Sister. My teacher hated me on principle. 

I switched back to my old school for fifth grade.

That summer I was invited to a girl named Sophie’s ninth birthday party. When my parents announced the news, I had no idea who they were talking about. I hadn’t been invited to her parties in the years previous. I went anyways. It was rainforest-themed, and I showed up with a sleeping bag and a generic gift that my parents had bought. The birthday girl’s parents showed me through the foyer while my mother chatted with the other parents there. Sitting at the dining table was a soon-to-be eleven-year-old brunette. My forgotten best friend. 

The memories didn’t rush back like they do in a fiction novel. I introduced myself, and she said hello. We chatted, as double-digit kids do, waiting for the other guests to arrive. Sophie explained her love for dinosaurs; I explained that I wanted to be a paleontologist. 

We got on like a house on fire. 

And, after eight years, we still do. Because, no matter what happens, we will always share our childhoods intertwined with one another. (Also, she promised to be my Maid of Honor whenever I get married.)