stay-at-home mom. But Abby, whether intentionally or not, let the truth spill like a bag of marbles. “My name’s Abby Irvine and I want to be a rock star,” she’d said with a kind of confidence I’ll always envy. The dream of being famous one day is a delicate thing. A thing to safely tuck away and maybe share with a few close, trusted friends. It could be extinguished by those who meant well but didn’t understand, a blanket over a timid flame. I didn’t have that same fearlessness. I would not, in a million years, announce matter-of-factly I hoped to be a hot-shot photographer one day. So I wasn’t a bit surprised when a rush of giggles and snickers filled the room. Mrs. Berger said, “That’s nice, dear. But maybe you should have a back-up plan. Something practical .” Mike Garcia yelled out, “Yeah, right. Like you’d ever become a rock star. You’re more likely to be hit by lightening. Loser!” Soon the entire class chanted “Lo-ser! Lo-ser! Lo-ser!” until Abby was on the verge of tears (she was tough but not bulletproof) and Mrs. Berger slammed her attendance log and yelled, “That’s enough!” My turn was next. I did what any best friend would do in the situation despite being so nervous I nearly puked—I committed social suicide and said, “My name is September Jones and I want to be a fairy princess.” I didn’t hear the end of it until Cassandra Abraham’s D-cup bra broke in co-ed PE a week later.
I gathered fistfuls of toilet paper and mopped up the tears and snot hanging from my nose. I noticed these words scribbled on the wall in purple ink: It’s not like you have anything better to read. (True.) And then with a sharpie on another wall: I feel like this is the only mark I’ll ever make in the world. (Sad.) And then in pencil: Do you idealize the past or see it as broken? (I’m definitely guilty of idealizing.) Someone wrote in reply: I’m just trying to take a dump. (Funny.)
I pulled out my own pen and scrawled: My best friend’s dead.
I thought awhile about the idealizing the past bit. I smiled, realizing things I hated about Abby were endearing to me now. Now that she was gone. The way she’d always lose her keys and blame it on me. The way she’d shake her leg when we watched movies, rocking the whole couch. Her nervous ticks: chewing gum with her mouth open, pawing through her hair to find and chomp off split ends. Her flaky side: borrowing my clothes and forgetting to wash and return them, committing to quality time then crashing parties instead, showing up reliably late for everything.
My tear ducts dried up the same time my stomach protested in hunger. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It was 6:39 PM now. I toyed with the idea of buying a few groceries. At home the choices were sparse—peanut butter, mayonnaise, six saltine crackers (yes, I counted) and Abby’s ginger ale, of course. But when I saw my face in the compact mirror, I wanted to scream. It was as red and blotchy as meat-lover’s pizza and my eyes were nearly swollen shut. I looked like I’d gone a few rounds in a boxing ring.
I considered staying in that nasty restroom stall forever, living off the breath mints and stale animal crackers in my purse.
***
After the John incident, I didn’t leave the apartment for three weeks. Every day I sat on the sagging couch and watched the hair on my legs grow. For the first time in my life, I went a full eleven days without bathing. When my head began to itch like mad, I envisioned all sorts of scary bugs I was sure had made a home in my hair. I finally summoned the strength to take a long, scalding shower (convinced the searing water would kill the tenants in my hair). After bathing, I was weak and drowsy and my muscles ached. Just washing my hair alone caused my arms
I gathered fistfuls of toilet paper and mopped up the tears and snot hanging from my nose. I noticed these words scribbled on the wall in purple ink: It’s not like you have anything better to read. (True.) And then with a sharpie on another wall: I feel like this is the only mark I’ll ever make in the world. (Sad.) And then in pencil: Do you idealize the past or see it as broken? (I’m definitely guilty of idealizing.) Someone wrote in reply: I’m just trying to take a dump. (Funny.)
I pulled out my own pen and scrawled: My best friend’s dead.
I thought awhile about the idealizing the past bit. I smiled, realizing things I hated about Abby were endearing to me now. Now that she was gone. The way she’d always lose her keys and blame it on me. The way she’d shake her leg when we watched movies, rocking the whole couch. Her nervous ticks: chewing gum with her mouth open, pawing through her hair to find and chomp off split ends. Her flaky side: borrowing my clothes and forgetting to wash and return them, committing to quality time then crashing parties instead, showing up reliably late for everything.
My tear ducts dried up the same time my stomach protested in hunger. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It was 6:39 PM now. I toyed with the idea of buying a few groceries. At home the choices were sparse—peanut butter, mayonnaise, six saltine crackers (yes, I counted) and Abby’s ginger ale, of course. But when I saw my face in the compact mirror, I wanted to scream. It was as red and blotchy as meat-lover’s pizza and my eyes were nearly swollen shut. I looked like I’d gone a few rounds in a boxing ring.
I considered staying in that nasty restroom stall forever, living off the breath mints and stale animal crackers in my purse.
***
After the John incident, I didn’t leave the apartment for three weeks. Every day I sat on the sagging couch and watched the hair on my legs grow. For the first time in my life, I went a full eleven days without bathing. When my head began to itch like mad, I envisioned all sorts of scary bugs I was sure had made a home in my hair. I finally summoned the strength to take a long, scalding shower (convinced the searing water would kill the tenants in my hair). After bathing, I was weak and drowsy and my muscles ached. Just washing my hair alone caused my arms
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