She was the sort of person life couldn't break, and I openly despised that. I made things tough for her because everything seemed to come so easily – she had great friends, a nice family, a nice house if memory served, and there were plenty of guys who'd fall all over themselves if she showed any interest in them. She even had followers. When she said something funny, people laughed. When she had an idea, people listened. I guess it also made me angry that she didn't seem to realize how lucky she was. She didn't bask in it. I would've.
I could barely remember what we were fighting about this time. It was always something. She had some quality, something about her that made this necessary. When she said jump, I told her to do it herself and go make me a sandwich while she was at it. When she said potato, I said tomato. There was a force like a tornado in me that made me do and say exactly what I knew would make her the most angry. It was wired into me, and there seemed to be a bug wired into her that made her precisely the sort of person I couldn't stand.
“I can't wait to get out of this place,” I mused, digging my toe into the gravel so little stones flew when I stepped.
I looked over at her. Her smile was farther from me than I expected. Sometimes I forgot I'd finally gotten taller than her somewhere around ninth grade. Of course she was smiling.
“You know, it's entirely possible I'm a figment of your imagination, and you invented this boring town while in a coma after some terrible motorcycle following an act of unsurpassed badassery.”
“Not likely. If this was a dream, I'd be back home with some hot chick instead of walking with you.”
“Come on, dork, you know I'm your friend and you do find me hot.”
I rolled my eyes. She may have been impossible, but she was a certain type of impossible that I needed from time to time, and the best way to make sure she was there when I required her help was to humour her. Also, I couldn't always be a rock. Sometimes I had feelings, and she helped me with them. We had a bond.
“Bullshit.”
“You were drunk and I was helping you walk, and I somehow got it in my sleep-deprived mind to ask you questions while you were too intoxicated to think of lying. You told me you found me incredibly attractive.”
“I lie.”
“When sober,” she countered.
We kept walking, and I waited for her to get distracted and forget about it. She was always getting caught up in escaping reality, to the point where I wasn't sure she knew which plot line she'd devised was reality. Sometimes I wondered if she thought I was real.
When she didn't fire off some comment about a parallel universe or her latest story, I knew something was up. She always came to me for help with her writing, as I was the only other writer she knew. Well, serious writer.
I thought of how frustrated she got when random girls thought they were writers because they wrote. She had a rant on the subject that I had to hear a lot. She told me time and time again that being a writer is much like being an alcoholic, in that neither is fun and games, but a compulsion that ensures a shorter lifespan. She'd talk about how the two are so similar, and I'd wonder if she'd hit the bottle yet. I knew she'd gotten drunk a few times, but she was far from being an alcoholic. Or was she?
What did I really know about her?
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“Going to go fight, pretty boy.”
“Sounds good, pretty girl.”
She laughed. “I finally learned that was flirting last week. I was talking to Haley and she had to explain it to me cause we were talking about how last summer Cain stopped answering my texts af-” she stopped abruptly. “Wait, you're flirting.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are. Now cut it out.”
“Make me, cutie.”
“Shut up!”
She ran a hand through her hair and I had to admit she did look cute. She was one of the prettiest girls at our school but I couldn't let her know that. She had too much going for her. Things came too easily for her.
“Your character isn't supposed to fall for mine.”
“I think you've got your archetypes mixed up,” I told her, leaning against the wooden fence of her backyard. I hadn't realized we'd walked so far. “See, my character's the ultra-attractive male lead. You know, the James Bond sort.”
“In your dreams,” she muttered.
I pretended not to hear her. “And you're the librarian sort that's alright-looking when she finally lets her hair down. My character can't keep on drinking and bedding gorgeous women each night forever – either his liver or an STD will kick his ass. So he finds the librarian and they get hitched.”
“Or that's bullshit. I'm the female lead they get Jennifer Lawrence to play in the movie adaptation, cause come on, she's beyond beautiful.”
“Too beautiful. We'll grab some random at a Starbucks and hope she's pretentious enough.”
“If you knew me at all you'd see I'm not as bourgeois as you like to think I am.”
It hit me that she wasn't a lot of things I thought she was. She was pretty, but a lot of girls were. She was smart, but not top of our class. She could crack a joke, but plenty of other girls could, too. There were dozens of other soccer players and dancers, and many girls who were both.
It was me. I found her the prettiest and the smartest and the funniest. I went to her recitals and soccer games and saw only her. The problem was that I had projected this perfection onto her.
“Although, if I am just a character you dreamed up in your comatose state, this gets confusing. You've made me less white bread than you think I am, but I'm only what you think I am, so do you find me white bread at all?”
“You're tired.”
“Quite hardly, sunshine.”
“It's nighttime.”
“And thank you for walking me home.”
I felt a smile come on. “In at least one universe, you're not going home.”
“Which one?”
“This one,” I told her.
She giggled, of all things. Of all the twisting plots and wild characters she'd dreamed up, she'd finally presented me with something that was her, even if it was just one little laugh. In that moment, she wasn't a story teller. She was a girl. Just a common girl. Just a girl I was absolutely in love with.
I could barely remember what we were fighting about this time. It was always something. She had some quality, something about her that made this necessary. When she said jump, I told her to do it herself and go make me a sandwich while she was at it. When she said potato, I said tomato. There was a force like a tornado in me that made me do and say exactly what I knew would make her the most angry. It was wired into me, and there seemed to be a bug wired into her that made her precisely the sort of person I couldn't stand.
“I can't wait to get out of this place,” I mused, digging my toe into the gravel so little stones flew when I stepped.
I looked over at her. Her smile was farther from me than I expected. Sometimes I forgot I'd finally gotten taller than her somewhere around ninth grade. Of course she was smiling.
“You know, it's entirely possible I'm a figment of your imagination, and you invented this boring town while in a coma after some terrible motorcycle following an act of unsurpassed badassery.”
“Not likely. If this was a dream, I'd be back home with some hot chick instead of walking with you.”
“Come on, dork, you know I'm your friend and you do find me hot.”
I rolled my eyes. She may have been impossible, but she was a certain type of impossible that I needed from time to time, and the best way to make sure she was there when I required her help was to humour her. Also, I couldn't always be a rock. Sometimes I had feelings, and she helped me with them. We had a bond.
“Bullshit.”
“You were drunk and I was helping you walk, and I somehow got it in my sleep-deprived mind to ask you questions while you were too intoxicated to think of lying. You told me you found me incredibly attractive.”
“I lie.”
“When sober,” she countered.
We kept walking, and I waited for her to get distracted and forget about it. She was always getting caught up in escaping reality, to the point where I wasn't sure she knew which plot line she'd devised was reality. Sometimes I wondered if she thought I was real.
When she didn't fire off some comment about a parallel universe or her latest story, I knew something was up. She always came to me for help with her writing, as I was the only other writer she knew. Well, serious writer.
I thought of how frustrated she got when random girls thought they were writers because they wrote. She had a rant on the subject that I had to hear a lot. She told me time and time again that being a writer is much like being an alcoholic, in that neither is fun and games, but a compulsion that ensures a shorter lifespan. She'd talk about how the two are so similar, and I'd wonder if she'd hit the bottle yet. I knew she'd gotten drunk a few times, but she was far from being an alcoholic. Or was she?
What did I really know about her?
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“Going to go fight, pretty boy.”
“Sounds good, pretty girl.”
She laughed. “I finally learned that was flirting last week. I was talking to Haley and she had to explain it to me cause we were talking about how last summer Cain stopped answering my texts af-” she stopped abruptly. “Wait, you're flirting.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are. Now cut it out.”
“Make me, cutie.”
“Shut up!”
She ran a hand through her hair and I had to admit she did look cute. She was one of the prettiest girls at our school but I couldn't let her know that. She had too much going for her. Things came too easily for her.
“Your character isn't supposed to fall for mine.”
“I think you've got your archetypes mixed up,” I told her, leaning against the wooden fence of her backyard. I hadn't realized we'd walked so far. “See, my character's the ultra-attractive male lead. You know, the James Bond sort.”
“In your dreams,” she muttered.
I pretended not to hear her. “And you're the librarian sort that's alright-looking when she finally lets her hair down. My character can't keep on drinking and bedding gorgeous women each night forever – either his liver or an STD will kick his ass. So he finds the librarian and they get hitched.”
“Or that's bullshit. I'm the female lead they get Jennifer Lawrence to play in the movie adaptation, cause come on, she's beyond beautiful.”
“Too beautiful. We'll grab some random at a Starbucks and hope she's pretentious enough.”
“If you knew me at all you'd see I'm not as bourgeois as you like to think I am.”
It hit me that she wasn't a lot of things I thought she was. She was pretty, but a lot of girls were. She was smart, but not top of our class. She could crack a joke, but plenty of other girls could, too. There were dozens of other soccer players and dancers, and many girls who were both.
It was me. I found her the prettiest and the smartest and the funniest. I went to her recitals and soccer games and saw only her. The problem was that I had projected this perfection onto her.
“Although, if I am just a character you dreamed up in your comatose state, this gets confusing. You've made me less white bread than you think I am, but I'm only what you think I am, so do you find me white bread at all?”
“You're tired.”
“Quite hardly, sunshine.”
“It's nighttime.”
“And thank you for walking me home.”
I felt a smile come on. “In at least one universe, you're not going home.”
“Which one?”
“This one,” I told her.
She giggled, of all things. Of all the twisting plots and wild characters she'd dreamed up, she'd finally presented me with something that was her, even if it was just one little laugh. In that moment, she wasn't a story teller. She was a girl. Just a common girl. Just a girl I was absolutely in love with.
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